Orion Rising
by meaty.demon.babey
Summary: After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry is given a chance to return to the living and continue the fight. Of course he takes it - but he would have appreciated knowing that he was going to be reborn as a literal infant to a muggle family he knew nothing about. (title, description, etc subject to change, no slash, moves kinda slow idk i'm making it up as i go)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

Harry awoke – well, he could suddenly see, anyway – in a stark-white, immaculately-cleaned version of Kings Cross station. He sat upright, looking around wildly. He was dead, he had to be. Was this hell? Waiting an eternity for a train to come? Of course that would be what hell was like.

"This isn't heaven or hell the way mortals understand it, my boy," came an familiar voice.

Harry whirled around, gawking unbecomingly at Dumbledore. The old wizard looked better than he had the day of his death, dressed in lilac robes with gold trim, his eyes twinkling at Harry behind half-moon spectacles. Seeing Dumbledore clothed reminded Harry that he was, among other things, _not_ clothed.

"Sir, I-" Harry started in embarrassment. He tried to cover himself, and realized he was suddenly dressed. Jeans and a t-shirt, which felt strange, because they were cleaner and better-fitting than any of Dudley's hand-me-downs had ever been. He turned back to Dumbledore. "Sir, what's going on?"

Dumbledore nodded sagely, helping to lift Harry to his feet as he explained, "On the night Voldemort attacked, your mother performed ancient magic. Blood magic. It saved your life, but when Voldemort cast the fatal curse, a fragment of his spirit broke off. It settled into the nearest vessel possible."

Harry's stomach twisted.

"Walk with me, Harry."

The two strode side by side along the train tracks. They came upon a husk – a grotesque, bleeding form, vaguely human and certainly miserable, but it was wretched. Harry recoiled at the sight of it. Dumbledore smiled, terse, and said, "Behold, the great and terrible Lord Voldemort, destroyed by his own curse. This is a life without love, Harry."

"It's awful," said Harry.

Dumbledore nodded. "Indeed. But you shouldn't take pity on it, Harry – it's dead. Save your pity for the living, and above all else, those who live without love."

Harry and Dumbledore fell into a comfortable silence, gazing at the bruised and bleeding husk, the only blemish upon Kings Cross. "Sir," said Harry at length, "am I really dead, then? Is this all the afterlife is?"

Dumbledore chuckled, a sound Harry had sorely missed. "When you first arrived, you thought this was hell. If we are to use such terms to describe this place – this strange place between life and death – I believe the proper moniker would be _purgatory._ But in purgatory, you suffer for your sins and move towards heaven. Here..." Dumbledore's eyes shined, like moonlight on a lake. "Here, my boy, you have a choice."

"A choice, sir?" Harry said.

Another sage nod from Dumbledore. He gestured for Harry to follow, and they left the husk behind them.

As they made their way down the tracks, two steam engines came into view. One on either side of the platform, both gleaming white. They unnerved Harry – they were silent, with no conductor stirring within them, no passengers, and no cargo. It didn't seem right.

"You've done more than enough in the wizarding world's plight against Voldemort. He might not fall today, but your sacrifice has made his death possible. To move on to the afterlife, to join your family and fallen loved ones, it is entirely your right. And you would be noble for it," said Dumbledore. "But..."

Harry listened with bated breath.

"But, should something stir inside you, inspire you to return to the fight and be there for Voldemort's death, it is entirely your right. And you would be noble for it," the old headmaster continued. He fixed Harry with his keen gaze, somehow looking at him as both a pupil, and an equal. "So, Harry. What will you choose?"

Harry's eyes darted between the two trains, both identical except for the meaning they held to him. His heart yearned to see his parents, Sirius, even Snape. How he wished he could say something to Snape right now!

But then, his mind filled with images of his friends. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, Neville... Faces of first-years he didn't even know, faces of people who'd forsaken him on the Ministry's whim. Strangers, acquaintances, old friends, new friends, rivals, enemies. Everyone still out there on the Hogwarts grounds, fighting for their lives against and evil that could finally perish.

"The dead aren't going anywhere," Harry said at last.

Dumbledore smiled. "Good luck, Harry."

Harry grinned, his eyes suddenly stinging with emotion. _I'll see you again someday, old friend._

And he made for the train.


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

* * *

Harry hardly remembered his birth – and really, who did? - but if he had, he imagined it would feel much like this. Hot, wet, and stifling, his head being squashed and his whole body being squeezed through an uncomfortably tight tube. And so slowly, too.

The screaming of a woman soon made its way to Harry's ears, and a feeling of panic possessed him. Screams meant pain, pain meant bloodshed, bloodshed meant battle. Harry wondered who it was who was screaming – was it Narcissa Malfoy? Ginny or Hermione? Someone he didn't even know?

Darkness gave way to light and Harry was blinded by it. He gasped for air, and he exhaled it as a scream of his own, the light and the pain of hands on his tender skin all too great for him to see or hear. Eyes squeezed shut, lungs burning – it was sensory overload. Through it all, he only heard one voice: a man's, older, and far too jovial for Harry's taste.

"Congratulations on two _beautiful_ baby boys!"

* * *

When Harry woke next, things were far more comfortable. Chiefly because it was dark, and thus it wasn't painful to open his eyes. Also, because he was laying flat against soft, fuzzy sheets that smelled of powder.

He squinted in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, not having any clue where he was. The ceiling itself was painted to look like clouds, with little golden birds flying around, reminding Harry of countless little golden snitches. It was cute, actually. If Harry had time to think of having children one day, he'd probably want a ceiling like this in the nursery.

Why he was thinking of babies now, he didn't know. Harry sniffed. It was the smell, for sure. The chemical aroma of oils and powders designed to make life as an infant or new parent easier on the skin and nose, respectively. Harry recognized it from his own toddler-hood (Dudley had taken an embarrassingly long time to grow out of diapers).

Which only made his situation stranger still. Why hadn't he returned to the Forbidden Forest, where Voldemort had struck him with the Killing Curse? Had he, and was he moved here after the fact? Did Voldemort move him here? Did his friends? Had they killed Voldemort, or did Voldemort kill them?

Not knowing was driving Harry mad. He resolved to sit up, get out of this bed – however tempting it was to stay and sleep for the next fifty years – and demand to know where he was, who his captors were, and where he could find and kill the Dark Lord. Heart pounding with adrenaline, Harry did the best he could to hoist himself out of bed.

It didn't work.

Harry rolled onto his side, his body sluggish, unresponsive, and far heavier than it had ever felt before. A squawking noise escaped him, a noise of discontent, and he kicked his legs in an attempt to move. But his legs, like the rest of his body, wouldn't cooperate. On his side, Harry realized with a sinking feeling that he was in a cage. Thick, tall white bars surrounded him.

He felt his face go warm, an a strange, high-pitched noise emitted from his throat. It wasn't a noise Harry had heard himself make before, but before he could question it properly, hot, fat tears were rolling down his face. Wails of misery came freely from his throat, a cry so foreign to his own ears that it made him feel worse still.

This had to be Voldemort's doing.

Within seconds, a second pair of lungs joined in on Harry's lament. He jerked his head to the side, eyes going wide and cries falling silent as he took in what appeared to be the largest baby in the world.

The baby's face was red and wet with tears, it's (his? Her?) toothless mouth opened wide as it shrieked.

Harry heard a door open, and busy footfalls.

If Harry had thought the baby large, then this man was easily a giant.

He was positively massive, dressed in a black suit and tie, with a shaved head and dark blue eyes. He scooped up the massive baby, which looked completely normal, if not tiny, in his arms, and then picked up Harry in the other.

Harry gasped as he was lifted easily into the giant's arm, and cradled in the crook of his elbow like, well, a baby. The giant bounced Harry and the baby gently, murmuring in a low voice. For all his size and appearance, the giant spoke quietly. Harry couldn't make out the words, but it soothed the giant baby's cries.

Harry just stared at the massive man with slack-jawed bewilderment. Hagrid was a huge man, but this one – the one was a mountain.

He seemed to notice Harry's expression, and his face broke into a small smile. All of his features, however rough or chiseled, softened immediately, and Harry saw what a kind face he had. His dark eyes, even, which at first had looked like bottomless pools, took on something of a Dumbledore-esque twinkle.

It was positively incongruous, all things considered.

Before long, the giant laid Harry and the giant baby down in the – as Harry now saw it – crib.

"Go to bed now, little ones," he spoke, finally at a volume Harry could understand. "Mother and Father need their rest just as much as you. If not more so."

With one last smile, the giant man backed out of the room and closed the double-doors behind him.

It was a lot to unpack, but Harry never got to do so. Within minutes, sleep claimed him.

* * *

"... and bring me the powder, would you? Thank you, Butler."

This was a woman's voice. Harry didn't recognize it, but he didn't recognize much anymore. He wasn't even sure he was on the same plane of existence as he had been before his "death."

Harry struggled to open his eyes, but it was painful in the light. Was it morning? Had someone turned a light on? Whatever it was, Harry wanted it to stop.

"Are you sure you want to be up and about, my Lady?" came the giant, the one from the night before. He sounded a bit different – a bit at a distance from the woman, where he'd been so intimate speaking to the giant baby. And Harry. "The birth was complicated. Are you not uncomfortable?"

The woman made a noise, a guffaw. "I'm not a porcelain doll, Butler. I can tend my own children, thank you. The powder?"

"Yes, my Lady."

Harry felt himself hoisted from the crib, and carried to somewhere with more shadow. Able to force his eyes open, he found himself gazing at one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen before in his life, or his previous one. His first thought was surely that she was a relative of Fleur's – the Delacours had rescued him from the Forbidden Forest! - but a second look was all he needed to see there was no connection. She was beautiful, for sure, but not in an ethereal, sensual way. Not like a veela. No, she was beautiful in a way that was more delicate, and human, and motherly. She reminded him of Molly Weasley, actually.

She laid him down on a table and removed an honest-to-god diaper from him.

Harry had a sinking sensation in his gut as he began putting the pieces together. Getting one look at his chubby, clumsy legs, and other appendages below the belt, and there seemed to be no way to deny it anymore.

He hadn't just come back to life; he had been reborn, as an infant, to this strange family he knew nothing about. And now he was having his ass wiped by a woman he didn't know, and who didn't know that there was the mind of a veritable adult in her newborn child's head.

And he'd shit himself during the night. Fantastic.

After being powdered and set up in a fresh nappy, the woman handed Harry off to the butler (he hoped someone would use the poor man's actual name soon) and went after her other son. Soon, both babies were changed and handed to the butler.

"Would you carry them for me? I'd like to show them around the house," she said with a smile.

"They were born yesterday, my Lady. Surely, there's plenty of time..."

"Butler," she said sharply. Then, in a much kinder voice, "Humor me. Please."

The butler (was his name Butler? That would be weird, but Harry came from a world of exclusively weird names, so...) heaved a sigh. "Yes, my Lady. Where to first?" he said.

She clapped her hands once, elated. "Why, obviously the garden!"

* * *

The woman's desire to show the house off to babies was definitely geared towards, well, babies. The only thing Harry could figure out was that these people were incredibly well-off. She pointed out rooms was they went, even the butler (who was, indeed, a mountain of a man. Of course not as tall as Hagrid, but damn close) struggled to keep up with the mother's erratic pace. Harry couldn't keep up with her tour, partly because she jumped from one room to the next so quickly, and partly because of just how large the house was.

"This is Daddy's study!"

"This is Mummy and Daddy's bedroom!"

"This is the drawing room – Mummy entertains friends here!"

"This is the private library!"

"This is the main hall!"

"This is the veranda!"

"This is the other veranda!"

"This is Mummy's _favorite_ room – it's going to be your playroom!"

It went on, and on, and on, notably leaving out the kitchen, bathrooms, and other areas Harry actually would have found useful.

Harry was just starting to grow anxious when they came upon by far the most interesting portion of the house.

"This," began the mother breathlessly, "this is our Hall of Memories." She grinned. "Your Grandpa Alexander started calling it that. Isn't it adorable?"

Harry gaped as she lead them into a long hallway with an arched entryway, the stone upon which was engraved with the phrase: A _urum Potestas Est._

The hallway itself was a sight to behold. It was long, with large double-doors placed regularly down its length, each marked with a date. On the intermittent walls, portraits – both of families and of individuals – lined the hallway. None of them moved, so Harry could at least tell that this was a muggle family, but they were obviously very old.

The woman spoke as she skipped down the length of the hallway. "We keep all of our treasures here – we have such amazing things, boys, you have no clue... Like in this room!" She stopped abruptly at a door, and swung it open. The butler stepped up so that they could see in. Inside was countless ornate, colorful dresses, shielded from the light by thick, black curtains, and shielded from the air by large glass cases.

"Real 18th century Rococo court gowns," she said. She pointed at one in the corner, which Harry could barely make out in what little light made it in from the hallway. "I wanted to get married in that one over there, but Grandpa Alexander was worried the air might ruin it. But your Daddy made sure I got married in the dress I wanted – he commissioned one just like it for our wedding day. It's so gorgeous. We keep that in a different room now. Maybe we'll get it out for when you two meet girls, or if you ever get a baby sister."

She slammed the doors and was back to flouncing down the hallway.

She opened other doors and showed off other priceless historical goods (how did they get these? Were they historians? Curators? Regular old collectors?) but it wasn't until they reached the end of the hall that Harry got another nugget of who these people were.

The hall ended in a circular alcove, with two stained-glass windows on either side of a portrait. A thin-faced man with icy, gray-blue eyes gazed down at them, his mouth turned down into a thin, grim line. Below it, a long rectangular box – black with gold accents – lay. The mother gently put a hand to it, as if out of respect.

"Boys, this is our oldest know relative. He built this beautiful home, and all of his descendants have lived within its walls since. Lord Hugo Fowl," she said, her voice much lower, almost reverent, as she spoke. She turned to the babies, beaming again, "He lived back in the eleventh century. That's amazing. Isn't that amazing?"

And suddenly she looked so tired.

"My Lady?" the butler said. Harry nearly leapt out of his arms. It felt like ages since he spoke.

"I'm sorry. This whole mothering thing has me _tuckered,"_ said the woman. "Would you feed the boys, please? I must lay down a moment."

"Of course, my Lady. Should I escort you-?"

"No, no. I won't hear of it, Butler. But thank you," she said. She smiled, and left, stopping only to plant a kiss on Harry and the baby's forehead.

When she was out of earshot, the butler heaved a huge sigh. "You mother is a _bat,_ " he said in a low voice, his face taking on the softness it had the night before – and had been lacking in the time spent with their mother. "Let's go get some food in you, hm?"

* * *

It didn't take long for Harry to decide that time spent with the butler was far more productive than time spent with the mother. For one thing, he actually went to less glamorous portions of the house – whether they be servants quarters, closets, or sections of the house that simply saw less use. The trek to the Hall of Memories from the main hall had taken the mother fifteen minutes, easily. But with the butler's shortcuts, they were crossing the main hall in less than five.

The dining room was off of the main hall, and the kitchen just off of that. There, Harry saw all of the life that the rest of the house had been lacking. The kitchen was swimming with cooks, and maids, gardeners, and other servants darting in and out of the kitchen for supplies or just as a shortcut. Harry had always heard that a servant's best strength was the ability to go unnoticed – and if that were true, these were likely the best servants money could buy.

"Butler, hullo. Baby food?" said one brusque, large-busted woman.

"Yes. Our Lady has neglected feeding her children in favor of giving them the grand tour," the butler said. Was his actual name really Butler? It was starting to seem that way, just based on how this other servant had addressed him.

The woman snorted. "She must be off the meds, or on something new. CINDY!"

A short, fresh-faced girl came out of seemingly nowhere with a basket of potatoes in her arms. "Yes, Penelope?" she said in the sweetest voice.

"Don't you 'yes, Penelope' me, girl. We have hungry babes in our wood! We need milk, and bottles – the recipe is in volume two, page twenty-five. And be quick about it!" Penelope snapped. She had quite the set of lungs on her.

Cindy disappeared again, and Penelope stood on her toes to be level with the babies in Butler's arms. "Let me have a look at the little tykes. Here, give me that one," she said, and Butler gave her Harry's apparent brother. She took him in her arms with the care and ease of someone who had dealt with many children before, and cooed at him. "Aw, look at his damn face. Which one is this?"

"Artemis II," answered Butler.

Penelope cackled. "The planned one! And little Orion, then," she said. She handed the baby – Artemis – back to Butler, and took Harry from his other arm. "The surprise."

She handed Harry back to Butler. "Lord knows how you tell those two apart. Identical, isn't they?"

"I keep Artemis to the left," explained Butler.

Penelope let out another cackle. "See how long that lasts. Soon as they learn to crawl and give backtalk, they're as good as the same damn kid, just twice the damn trouble. You'll have to brand 'em to keep 'em straight," she said.

Cindy soon returned with two bottles of warm milk, and Butler made himself comfortable in the dining room with Penelope.

Harry wasn't sure if having known he would be bottle-fed by a seven-foot stranger would have altered his decision to return to the living, but he certainly would have appreciated a warning.

 _Leave it to Dumbledore to keep me in the dark,_ he though bitterly.

The milk was delicious, though.


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

It didn't take long for Harry to settle into a routine of sorts.

He and his brother, Artemis, would wake with the sun, be bathed and diapered by Butler, and then be tended to, nursed, entertained, and put to bed all by Butler. In fact, Harry wasn't even quite sure what sort of role Butler was supposed to have in the household. Was he a butler? A nanny? A bodyguard? It even got to the point where he would make the baby formula for Harry and Artemis. Harry only ever saw the mother – he picked up that her name was Angeline – about once a day, usually at dinner or early in the morning while Butler was changing them. It seemed mundane motherly duties like changing diapers didn't catch her fancy, but according to Penelope, it may also have had something to do with her medication.

"Madness runs in the blood, sure, but not like in that woman – never like her," Penelope had sworn once. "She's the maddest I've ever fed, for sure."

As far as all of what Harry understood of his situation, he knew he was in Ireland, born to an independently-wealthy and old family. Where that wealth had come from and how it was maintained, Harry hadn't a slightest. It was likely something to do with the father, who he hadn't even seen yet. According to the kitchen gossip, the Master of the house had departed on some kind of business trip barely twenty-four hours after the birth of his sons.

Harry didn't have parents in his past life, but he was pretty sure the average family wouldn't have been able to get away with this level absence.

The worst thing about it was being trapped in the body of an infant. He couldn't control the way his body moved, or the way his mouth moved, and even if he could, he didn't know what he'd say or who he'd say it to. Once, a week after his being born, Harry had practically gone mad, and babbled the entire story of his past life, death, and rebirth to Butler.

Except it had all come out as disjointed sounds and sputters, and Butler had only chortled.

It had been another week since then, and Harry could practically feel another fit of madness possessing him.

He was laying next to Artemis in the crib, watching Butler read a book in a nearby chair while his brother sucked senselessly on the ear of a stuffed animal.

 _This is ridiculous,_ thought Harry. _I'm a wizard. I shouldn't have to put up with this._

Was he a wizard, though? Harry didn't actually know how magic worked. It could be inherited, which would lead one to believe it was a physical trait, but then what was so special about the souls of magical people that they could become ghosts when Muggles couldn't? So was it tied to the soul, or essence, or was it a part of DNA?

There was only one way to find out.

Harry had never been good at wordless magic, or wandless magic, so doing both was a bit of a crapshoot. But if he could do something, anything, it would be enough to get him through the next few painstaking years of poor coordination and baby formula.

He outstretched an arm and fixed his eyes on the stack of diapers on the shelf over Butler's head.

 _Accio._

 _Wingardium Leviosa._

 _Fall over, dammit._

Harry bristled, getting red in the face and knowing it. This wasn't okay! As far as he knew, Voldemort was still on the loose, still killing and torturing and staining Britain red with the blood of innocent people. And here Harry was, trapped in a crib and a diaper, unable to do the least bit of magic – maybe not even having magic at all! - just letting Voldemort get away with it.

 _Fall over!_

 _I said fall over!_

Harry's breathing grew heavy, his eyes wet. His infant body responded to even the slightest of inconveniences, which only made him madder still.

 _Fall!_

 _Fall!_

Butler had taken notice, and was walking over to the crib. "What's the matter, Orion? Do you need your nappy changed?" asked Butler, not unkindly.

 _For fuck's sake, **fall over!**_

The pack of diapers slid off of the shelf, meeting the floor with a soft _thud._ Butler whirled around at a speed Harry didn't know possible, and – to Harry's shock and horror – he had a handgun pulled.

A moment passed where Butler looked around the room uneasily, before finally putting his gun back in the holster under his jacket. Harry was floored. Butler had a gun? Why? Who gave him a gun? What was up with this family that their children needed to be guarded with actual firearms? Was that a rich people thing, or what?

Butler picked the pack of diapers up, inspecting them closely before setting them back on the shelf, and pushing them as close to the wall as they'd go. He turned back to the children in the crib, picking Harry up and sniffing his nappy. "Well, you're fine," he hummed. He gave Harry an accusatory look, but his mouth was crooked into a smile. "You little gremlin, you just wanted attention."

Harry would have rolled his eyes, had he reasonable control over fine motor movements like that.

"Why can't you be more like Artemis, hm? He's content to relax after a long day's work of absolutely nothing," Butler went on. He leaned over and tickled Artemis's belly, eliciting excited kicks and giggles.

Harry didn't know how he managed it, but he found it in him to roll his eyes.

Victory number one: magic still worked.

Victory number two: sass machine still worked, too.

* * *

Breakfast was typically a dull affair, with Butler visiting Penelope in the kitchens at around nine AM, and spending the better part of an hour feeding Harry and Artemis in the dining room. Penelope or Cindy would sometimes help in this matter, feeding one while Butler fed the other, and when they did this Harry learnt a lot more about his situation.

Artemis Fowl I, or Harry's father, was often on vague business meetings in foreign countries. Apparently Angeline was far more stable when he was under the same roof, for some reason (clingy? Paranoid?). Harry also learnt that Butler's whole family served the Fowls, and had for as long as the Fowls had been in Ireland. The exact nature of their service was unclear, as were a lot of specifics, but it was a lot better than nothing.

It was a fairly normal morning when Harry's established routine was thrown out of whack. Penelope was the one holding to bottle to Harry's mouth, and it was Cindy who came bursting into the dining room – flushed – babbling almost madly.

"Master Fowl is here! Get out – get cleaned up – out, out, out!" Cindy was yelling.

"Master Fowl? What, six days early?" Penelope said, baffled.

Butler sighed. "Things must have gone south in Peru. Well, I'll take Orion off your hands. We all ought to focus on our own duties," Butler said, brusque. "He'll be livid after a sour deal. Don't anger him."

Penelope nodded, handing Harry over, before darting back into the kitchen.

Butler, meanwhile, started back to the nursery, an infant in either arm and a bottle clutched in either hand. Harry wondered how he planned on opening and closing doors on the way, and briefly considered trying a few spells to help the man out. He decided against it – Butler had reacted pretty badly to Harry's last magical stunt and he didn't think the man needed to shoot anyone or have an aneurysm today.

They had barely reached the stairs when the main doors slung open – or rather, were opened discreetly by servants – and Master Artemis Fowl I strode in.

Butler stopped in his tracks, turned around, and began making his way to meet him.

"Master Fowl," greeted Butler.

Artemis Sr. fixed Butler with a terse glare. He was a narrow man, well manicured, in a custom-made suit with a violet dress shirt beneath it. His hair was combed and gelled back, emphasizing his brow, and subsequently, his piercing blue eyes.

And he looked pissed.

"Butler. How are my boys doing?" he asked, curt. Trailing behind Artemis Sr. was another man, just as tall and beefy as Butler, and clad in much the same manner, if much older.

"Quite well, sir. Healthy as can be," answered Butler. "If I may say, we weren't expecting you so soon, sir."

Artemis Sr. pursed his lips. "Nasty bit of business in Peru. We had to evacuate immediately."

"The local government?"

Artemis Sr. threw back his head and laughed bitterly. "I should hope not! If so, we'd better cease all business transactions and burn the whole damn place to the ground for the good of humanity. No, no – _cultists,"_ he explained.

Butler blinked. " _Cultists,_ sir?"

The older man behind Artemis Sr. reached into his jacket, and pulled out a mask. He held it out for Butler to see. "I got this one on our way to the helicopter. It's quite a sight, isn't it?" he said.

Harry peered at it, and his stomach dropped out. Quite the sight, indeed. It was the same silver skull mask Harry had gotten to know far too well in the past few years – the mask of a Death Eater.

Harry wondered which one it belonged to.

"In any case, our deal with the Peruvians has gone to shit, and now we're two million in the hole. Major, come. We have a lot of work to do," Artemis Sr. said. He started towards the stairs without giving the two babies in Butler's arm so much as a second thought.

So, there were Death Eaters in Peru now. If that meant anything, it meant that Voldemort's power was going global. It made Harry sick to his stomach.

Needless to say, he didn't enjoy the rest of his breakfast.

* * *

Thoughts of Death Eaters and Voldemort and Peru chased Harry relentlessly for the rest of the day. His sour mood didn't go unnoticed by Butler, and the poor man spent the better part of an hour dangling colorful wooden toys and squishy stuffed animals in front of his face in a futile attempt to cheer him up.

"I'm not a fucking child, you intolerable sack of meat," Harry wanted to say. He tried, too, but again, all he could do was make vaguely discontent baby noises.

In the end, Butler just put Harry and Artemis to bed.

Harry laid stubbornly awake, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't have any connection to Voldemort anymore – couldn't sense his thoughts, couldn't feel his power, couldn't see the world through his eyes. It was a relief to not have his scar burning and his heart racing with the knowledge that the Dark Lord could sense his innermost thoughts, but at the same time, Harry felt like he was stranded. Utterly alone in the dark.

His eyes drifted over towards Artemis. His brother. Did he count as his brother? They'd certainly emerged from the same womb, but Harry had an entire life under his belt. He had already found a family, and friends, and had things that were dear to him. He didn't know anything about the baby sleeping soundly beside him. He had no clue what sort of person he would grow up to be. Just based off of the life Harry had come from, and the one this kid was going to grow up in, they had nothing in common. But would Artemis see it that way? Would Harry grow up with this family, with this weird person he had nothing in common with but would view him as his brother? His _twin_ brother, possibly the closest person to him in the world?

Harry turned away. Was he really thinking he could find solidarity in a stupid spoiled baby? Of course he couldn't.

 _I don't need to, either,_ Harry told himself. _My real friends, my family... they're still out there. I just have to get to them._

Soft voices derailed his train of thought, and a moment later, Artemis Sr. was slinking into the room. He looked exhausted, but the edge he'd had on his face earlier that day was gone. He came over to the crib, leaned over, a small smile playing on his lips. "Hello, children," he said, a hand drifting into the crib to caress either boy's face.

He made his way to the bookcase in the corner of the room, surveying it scrupulously, flexing the digits of one hand while he searched for the right book. "Aha," he said when he found it. He pulled a worn children's book off of the shelf, and was soon back at the cribside, having pulled up a chair.

"I want to read you a story my father read to me when I was a child," he said, clutching the book like a precious artifact. His eye gleamed mischievously, as if he were going against someone's orders by doing this. "It's about a boy who finds a secret world full of magic. It was my favorite when I was little..."

The story was nothing special, in Harry's opinion. It was about a boy capturing a leprechaun and stealing it's gold, but the way Artemis Sr. reacted to it was... interesting. His eyes darted around the page excitedly as he read, and he kept stopping the story to show them the illustrations ("Look at all that gold! Imagine having stacks of gold like that in your house." Harry could only think of his Gringotts vault), talk about words he'd learnt from the book, and about dumb things the leprechaun did to get itself caught, and dumb things the boy did to lose in the end. He even did voices.

In the end, Artemis Sr. closed the book firmly and turned a smiling face on his sons. Artemis II had woken up at some point during the story and promptly fallen back asleep, but Harry had been wide-awake for the whole thing.

"Do you want to know why I love this story so much?" he asked.

Harry couldn't answer, of course.

"It's because I was always so interested in the boy," he said. At Harry's blank expression, Artemis Sr. went on. "See, the boy did almost everything right – he figured out the leprechaun's hideout, how to catch it, how to trick it, and everything, but he still lost in the eleventh hour. How? How could someone who plans so far ahead still be beat by their own prisoner? I'll tell you why: he was a fool."

If Harry had any hair on the back of his neck, it would have been standing on end. There was an edge in Artemis Sr.'s voice, and a fire behind his eyes.

"He was a fool because he let himself think he'd won. He took his eyes off of the leprechaun a moment too soon, too possessed by his greed to finish what he'd started. And the leprechaun took that chance to outsmart him in the end," said Artemis Sr. He leaned a bit closer. "Whatever you do when you're older, whatever you become, don't be a fool. Don't be that stupid boy who takes his eyes off the leprechaun. You have to be smarter and quicker than everyone else in the room, or you're going to be eaten alive in this world. That is what makes us Fowls so great. We're like leprechauns – we're smart, we're quick, and we don't let anyone take advantage of us." Artemis Sr. grinned. "And we love gold."

He leaned in just a bit closer, and planted a kiss on Harry's forehead. He kissed Artemis as well, and was just as quick on his way to the door.

"Goodnight, Artemis, Orion," he said. And he snapped the low light off, and closed the door.

 _If the Fowls were wizards,_ Harry thought, _they would definitely be Slytherins._


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Voldemort stood over the fireplace, watching the logs turn to ash and thinking back to that fateful day just a few months ago. The Tragedy of Hogwarts, they called it. A wonderful victory for Voldemort, of course, but much of the public wasn't as thrilled about it.

No matter. Their children would appreciate living in a world free of muggle and mudblood interference, at least.

But Voldemort wasn't as concerned with the public's opinion of him as he was with Harry Potter. One would think that killing someone would be enough to end the issues relating to them, but as always, Potter was a special case.

The back of his neck prickled. Someone had activated their dark mark, informing him of a considerable development in their mission. It felt like Lucius.

Voldemort sighed, waving his wand to activate the spell to welcome Lucius to Riddle Manor. He left the fire, walking around the desk to the window. He pulled the curtain back right in time to see Lucius apparate just outside the wards, prisoner in tow.

The Dark Lord moved to make himself comfortable by the fire, pausing only to grab the wand in question off of the mantle. Harry Potter's wand, specifically. It had caused him quite a bit of grief in the months since the boy's death.

Soon, Lucius came knocking, and Voldemort beckoned him, "Enter." The door opened and Lucius entered, one hand firmly gripping the prisoner.

"My Lord," bowed Lucius.

"Rise. Bring him forward," Voldemort said.

Lucius did as he was ordered, throwing the prisoner to the ground only just lightly enough not to invoke Voldemort's wrath.

"Leave," was Voldemort's next order.

Lucius bowed again, murmuring something respectful as he backed out of the room. The door shut firmly after him, and Voldemort waited a moment or two to be sure his minion had left. For a while, the only sound was the crackle of the fire, and the uneven rasping of the prisoner's breath.

Finally, Voldemort broke the silence. "Ollivander. Glad you could make it," he said.

The wandmaker looked up, his eyes sunken and his face thin and bloody, but his eyes as glassy and knowing as always. As far as Voldemort could tell, that meant he was still himself. And that meant he was still useful. "I will not waste time on pleasantries. I have a problem," started the Dark Lord.

"You've many problems, as does the rest of the wizarding world. Of these, I am equipped only to handle those pertaining to crochet. And wandmaking, I suppose," said Ollivander. "So, Dark Lord, would you like to learn to crochet?"

Voldemort whipped out his own wand. " _Crucio."_

Ollivander's back arched, veins standing out against his forehead and neck as the agony coursed through him. Voldemort only held the curse for a moment, though. He was no good to him mad and blathering. Well, any more so than was usual of Ollivander.

"Wandmaking it is, I see," said Ollivander through his teeth, the effects of the spell lingering for a moment after Voldemort released him.

"Precisely. This was Potter's wand," Voldemort said, getting right into it. He held the wand up for Ollivander to see, as if the man wouldn't believe that Voldemort would have plucked it from the boy's corpse. Voldemort actually had quite a few keepsakes from the boy's corpse: his glasses, his woolly socks... Just things to remind him of why he hated him so much.

"It looks to be in working condition," said Ollivander.

"Oh, it's in perfectly functional condition. If that were my concern, you'd be dead, not sitting in my office chitchatting," said Voldemort in a voice too soft. "A wand belongs to the victor, does it not? So why, Mr. Ollivander, does this wand – which is not only a twin to my own – not respond to me when I attempt to use it? Have I not earned it? Did I not best it's previous master?"

The wry smile Ollivander gave him made Voldemort want to curse him all over again.

"Oh, Mr. Riddle. You know how it goes – the wand chooses the wizard. It is not for me to say why it thinks you unworthy-"

" _Crucio."_

This time Ollivander screamed. It was a hoarse sound, like an animal being slaughtered, but it was short.

"Unworthy? Me?" Voldemort prompted. "What else must a wizard do to prove his worth? Killing a wizard has been enough for every wand before, so what more need I prove to this one? Is Harry Potter not dead by my hand?"

At this Ollivander grinned.

Voldemort didn't like that, but stopped his hand before casting the Cruciatus again.

"Harry Potter must be dead, though," said Voldemort.

A low laugh made its way out of Ollivander's throat.

Voldemort's eyes widened. "I used the Killing Curse. I touched his corpse, I felt his heart." _I took his socks!_ "There's no way he survived."

But Ollivander's grin and menacing chortle didn't waver.

Voldemort summoned Lucius back, and the simpering fool was in the office within moments.

"I want this madman in Azkaban immediately," snapped Voldemort. "And don't dawdle! I'm sick of looking at both of you."

"Yes, my Lord!" said Lucius, roughly grabbing Ollivander and dragging him out of the office. The doors slammed and Voldemort was left alone, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being stared at. Dumbledore. Snape. Potter. Thousands of others, all floating around him, watching him, waiting for him to snap and make a mistake and set himself up for failure.

Voldemort's lip curled, and before he could stop himself, Potter's wand was snapping in his hand. It splintered, exposing the phoenix feather inside, and the sight of it made Voldemort swell with rage. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, throwing the busted wand into the fire.

He watched it burn.

But even as the wand turned to ash, the feeling persisted. Voldemort took to pacing, a nervous habit he'd had since his childhood.

Did he even dare believe it? That Potter was alive somewhere? No, surely he'd feel it. He'd see Potter's dreams. Feel his fears, know his thoughts. But since that night in the forest, that connection was lost. You couldn't have that kind of connection with a dead person, after all.

But still, the anxiety was mounting in the back of Voldemort's mind. He doubted Potter had it in him to make a horcrux, but what if there had been some other way for him to bind his soul to the earth? What if Potter was far more dangerous than Voldemort thought, and actually did have a horcrux somewhere?

Voldemort wished Nagini was alive. Her presence, as well as being a trustworthy confidant, had always assured him that he was going to live on no matter what.

But that Longbottom boy had killed her.

 _No, Longbottom is not the priority,_ he thought. _Potter may very well have a horcrux or some other ridiculous method of immortality. He could be alive at this very moment, preparing to face me again._

Voldemort's guts twisted at the thought. He was an unmatched duelist and had an army behind him, but he was out of horcruxes. Nagini, the locket, the diadem, the cup, the diary, the ring... He couldn't feel any of them, and knew for sure that many were destroyed.

Getting into life-or-death conflicts like that as a mortal was a foolish idea.

Voldemort's reflex was to summon every Death Eater he had and send them on a mission to find and kill Harry Potter on sight, but he stopped himself. No. No, the Death Eaters – no one, as a matter of fact – could know about this. Those who would not see him as weak would see him as mad, and he would lose his army. Not to mention what his enemies might make of his call to arms. They were easy to control because they were hopeless. If word got out that Lord Voldemort suspected his greatest enemy to live still...

He resolved to keep the matter strictly private. Sometimes he regretted killing Snape – it was times like these that Voldemort wished to have someone so trustworthy by his side.

* * *

October brought many changes, chief among them being Angeline's entire disposition.

With Artemis Sr. in the house, she wound up spending her mornings and afternoons with Harry and Artemis, speaking softly and tending to them gently. During the day, she was busy with preparations for something or other, but when she spent time with her children now, she was calm, and attentive, and not nearly as prone to fervent home tours.

That wasn't to say she never got caught up in the moment and decided to show the babies something or other in the Hall of Memories or her personal collection – it was just a far more relaxed affair, and usually only happened every week or so.

A lazy afternoon spent sleeping against Angeline's bosom was interrupted by Artemis Sr. coming into the nursery.

"Arty?" said Angeline, coming out of her doze. Whatever she'd been making preparations for, it had certainly been tiring her out.

 _Or maybe that's just being the new mother of twins,_ Harry thought.

"We have a new opportunity in Peru. I have to leave immediately," said Artemis Sr. shortly.

Angeline's eyes widened, and she was suddenly standing. "Artemis, don't do this right now..."

"I have to, darling. We're two million in the hole. Your little gala thing isn't going to pay for itself," Artemis Sr. said.

Angeline bristled, and carefully set both of her children back in their crib before planting her hands on her hips and giving her husband what-for. Harry craned his neck and back to watch.

"This is a _charity ball_ for _orphans,_ Artemis! Why do you have to belittle it?" she demanded.

"I did no such thing. But it isn't happening if it isn't paid for-"

"We have plenty of money! I'll pay for it out of my own account," Angeline pleaded.

Artemis Sr. shook his head. "Today, it's just your charity thing, but losing the Peruvians will cost us far too much in the long run. Next year, it will be our home, and the year after that, who knows what?" he said.

A retort was forming on Angeline's lips, but Artemis Sr. had already more than made his decision. "I won't be long, dear. A few weeks. I'll be back in time to make an appearance at the ball," he said.

He gave her a kiss and was gone in a breath.

Harry watched Angeline. In less than a minute, she'd turned from a vibrant, glowing young woman to a tired and almost sickly one. She slumped down in the nursery chair, chewing her fingernails.

Harry turned away from her as best he could, eyes fixed on the painted ceiling.

What the hell did the Fowls do for a living?

* * *

October rolled into November, with the only notable change being Artemis Sr.'s return from Peru. A week late, no less. Harry could hear Angeline berating him hysterically from across the manor, despite Butler's attempt to drown out the noise with a storybook.

November was a month filled with other charity events hosted at Fowl Manor (it's official name, apparently), as was December. Artemis Sr. never mentioned funding to his wife again, so Harry assumed he'd salvaged Peru. Harry wished he could see one of Angeline's events – but whenever they rolled around, he and Artemis would be sent upstairs and closely watched by Butler. All he knew was that there was good music, delicious food, and lots of laughter.

It was difficult to practice magic at Fowl Manor, especially as an infant. There wasn't much he could do besides make things fall over. Lifting them, moving them across the floor, changing their color... It was all too complicated to attempt. The biggest issue was definitely Butler's presence – the man was, as far as Harry could tell, strung higher than a Hogwarts banner and jumpy enough to make Moody look lax. He didn't have any clue how he would react to a levitating teddy bear.

Christmas was a quiet affair where Angeline showered Harry and Artemis with baby clothes and stuffed animals and storybooks while Artemis Sr. sat dozing in the corner.

Harry thought of the last few Christmases he'd had, spent at Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place with the Weasleys.

He had to wonder if the Weasleys were still alive, even. Hogwarts had been attacked in May, and it was almost January now. Were any of Harry's old friends still alive?

He had a sour disposition for the rest of the evening, which compounded Artemis's own discomfort (they were both sitting on their own, finally, but Artemis couldn't hold himself up for nearly as long as Harry) and ended their first Christmas with shrill crying.

January was a blur of Angeline's hysterics (Artemis Sr. had gone on another business trip). Butler took her absence as an opportunity to focus on Harry and Artemis, and before long they were crawling around the nursery under Butler's infallible supervision.

Being able to crawl around and sit up on his own hardly provided as much autonomy as Harry would have liked, but it was certainly better than relying on someone he couldn't communicate with to get him around. If only Artemis would come along as quickly as Harry – he might have been able to distract Butler and let Harry practice some magic. As it was, all Harry could do was crawl from the crib, to the bookcase, to the toy chest, and back again, trying to build up his endurance.

He had places to go, after all.

* * *

Harry snoozed until late at night, long after Angeline had gone to bed and long after Butler had closed the nursery doors. Harry didn't know whether Butler would stay stationed outside of the nursery, or if slept like everyone else in the world, but he figured the worst that could happen would be that he would be put back to bed.

He had to risk it, though. He'd started having dreams of his friends being chased down by hooded figures, of dementors and Death Eaters flying over Hogwarts as it burned with black and green flames. More than once, he'd started crying in his sleep, not waking until Artemis joined him and Butler soothed him. Which was only moderately humiliating, but Harry was grateful for the man nonetheless. In any case, Harry was no help to anyone if the most he could do was crawl.

He had to practice his magic.

Harry sat up in his crib, glancing at Artemis and seeing him sleeping soundly. Satisfied that he wasn't going to wake, Harry hoisted himself into a standing position, bracing himself against the bars of the crib. He pawed at the latch, trying to unhook it without making too much noise, and without being able to see it. It didn't take long.

He guided the gate of the crib down as quietly as he could, pleased to see that neither Butler nor Artemis had been stirred. Heart pounding, he lowered himself to the floor, slipping at the last moment and landing on his back. Harry's reflex was to cry out, but only by jamming his one newly-emerging tooth into his cheek did he resist.

A few short breaths later, and he was ready to continue his journey.

Rolling over, Harry began crawling across the nursery towards the door. He'd been practicing for weeks, and thus reached the double-doors before long.

 _Now,_ Harry thought, gazing at the doors as they loomed over him, _for the difficult part._

He thrust out his hands and focused to the best of his ability. _Open._

Nothing happened, of course. Harry didn't let it get to him – it was perhaps more complicated than just making something fall over. There was a lock and a latch on this – it couldn't be forced.

Undeterred, he tried again. _Open up._

 _Open._

 _Hey, asshole, open the fuck up!_

Swearing was not the secret to wordless, wandless magic, apparently.

Harry ground his gums together, arms still outstretched.

 _Open._

A distinct feeling dawned on him, one that told him that this method was futile. He sighed, lowering his arms, and regarded to door. The latch itself was far more complicated than a pack of diapers on a shelf, and that wasn't even accounting for the lock. Harry wasn't sure how to tackle it. Make the lock disappear? Explode? Should he blow the entire door off of its hinges? Make a small door neat the bottom, a la Alice in Wonderland?

Or...

Harry came closer to the door, placing a hand on the wood and closing his eyes. Seven years ago – he tried to remember exactly what had been going through his head at the time. _Dudley, that fat pig – no, that isn't right. I can't believe he pushed me – no, not quite it either._

His cousin, the snake, the sign: "Bred in captivity." Dudley's horrible adolescent face pressing up against the glass -

 _That poor thing on the other side._

Harry knew it was right. He focused on that thought, thinking of Ron and Ginny and Hermione and Luna and McGonagall and everyone else he'd ever met, or hadn't met, beyond that door who needed his help.

When Harry opened his eyes, the door was still there. He furrowed his brow, eyes fixed on the barrier between himself and his prerogative, and thought with a sternness and purpose he'd managed for few thoughts before, _Get out of the way._

The wood seemed to dissolve, peeling back to form a small opening just large enough for Harry to get through. With a smirk, he rolled onto his belly, and crawled through.

Once on the other side, it closed, but Harry didn't spare it much more than a thought. He had things to do, after all, and he needed seclusion to do them.

Harry started the long crawl to the library.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

"Come on, Orion. Come over to me," beckoned Butler from across the nursery.

Harry's legs ached and shook from overuse, but while Artemis was thoroughly done with making effort that day, Harry was determined to become bipedal as soon as possible. A quadruped doth not a good savior make, after all.

With a deep breath, Harry let go of the side of the crib which he'd been using for support, and began the long, clumsy toddle towards Butler. He made it about halfway before losing his balance and tumbling to one side.

From Butler's side, where Artemis was entertaining himself with picture books, Harry's brother let out a delighted squeal.

"Don't laugh at your brother," Butler chided him, before going over to Harry and helping him up. To Harry, "One more time?"

Harry, exhausted as he was, nodded in agreement before it occurred to him that perhaps just shy of a year old might be too soon for a child to understand language like that. He hoped "one more time" was a simple enough sentence that Butler didn't freak out.

It seemed Harry was in the clear, though, because Butler set him back by the crib – where Harry steadied himself – and took his own place by the bookshelf without raising too many eyebrows.

"Alright, Orion. Once more – come on over," said Butler, arms opened wide.

Harry set his jaw and released the crib, focusing on his balance as he made his way across the nursery. When he'd fallen before, it was when his knees rocked and he over-corrected, resulting in a tumble. This time, Harry was heart-set on making it to Butler without giving Artemis any reason to taunt him.

His brother had been growing in the "personality" department lately, and frankly Harry was getting sick of it. When Butler wasn't watching, he'd nudge or pinch Harry, make stupid faces at him, or utterly disregard him as if he weren't even there. Not to mention how he'd cackle every time Harry fell over or did something stupid.

Worst of all was how clingy Artemis was. Harry's nighttime rendezvous to the library and other isolated locations were often thwarted not by Angeline or Butler, but by Artemis's desire to follow Harry around. If Harry so much as _thought_ of leaving the nursery too loudly, Artemis would wake right up and stare at him until Harry either went to sleep, or opened the crib up. Usually the former, but sometimes it was the latter, and Harry would be stuck sitting in the nursery while Artemis tore books off of the two shelves he could reach.

It was Harry's rage that finally carried him the few short feet from the crib to Butler's arms.

Harry let himself collapse, knowing Butler would catch him (and he did). His legs _ached,_ but it certainly felt better than the mental image of him crawling into battle against Voldemort.

While Butler congratulated Harry on his feat, Artemis audibly scoffed beside him.

Harry frowned while Butler chided him again. He sometimes wondered if Artemis was actually a soul in a similar position as himself, reborn with the memories from a past life.

 _That's ridiculous,_ Harry thought. He locked eyes with Artemis for just a minute, and his insides squirmed at the look in them. _It is ridiculous, isn't it?_

* * *

Watching July 31st fly by on the calendar with no comment felt rather odd to Harry. The Dursleys had conditioned him to have incredibly low expectations for the date, a pair of socks or grudging acknowledgment at best, but the Weasleys had thrown that expectation out the window and subverted it year after year.

For the Fowls, the date meant nothing, and nothing noteworthy happened.

However, directly after that, Angeline was running around the manor, giving orders, making calls and decisions, and writing invitations.

"We're having a birthday gala," she told Butler as he came downstairs with Harry and Artemis in his arms. "Lots of planning to do. Lots of guests. How many do you think, Butler? A dozen? Two dozen? Fifty? Perhaps only family..."

Her musings went on and Butler was not released from them until he offhandedly observed how hungry Harry and Artemis looked. Angeline gasped ("Well, don't just _stand_ there!") and sent him promptly to the kitchen to feed her children.

Penelope brought out Harry and Artemis's breakfast (a bowl of oatmeal with melon slices and whole milk) and hung back a moment to talk to Butler. There was much less conversation between the two, now that neither Harry nor Artemis was fed from a bottle, but they still did manage an exchange here and there.

"That woman wants to throw a gala for her tots turning one?" she asked, incredulous.

Butler shook his head. "She's only going overboard because it helps to take her mind off of other things. Once Master returns, she'll likely junk all of her prior plans and just have a quiet day with her children," Butler said.

Harry's heart sank a little bit at that. Angeline's parties, galas, and events were a sight to see – and specifically, one he hadn't seen yet. Everyone who was anyone from Dublin and beyond was always on the guest list, and brought with them millionaires and visionaries of their own. Angeline consistently raised hundreds of thousands of euros for charitable causes, as well as providing work for local craftsmen, artisans, and bakers.

Any one of Angeline's parties put every birthday Dudley ever had combined to shame.

Harry caught himself and immediately purged these thoughts from his head. Angrily – and somewhat sloppily – he shoveled the oatmeal into his mouth, berating himself for being caught up in such superfluous flights of fancy. Angeline's parties did a lot of good, and were quite impressive, but Harry hadn't come back from the dead to gawk at hand-crafted sculptures of winged cattle to be auctioned off for cancer research.

He came back to kill Voldemort.

"Orion, stop – you're flinging your food everywhere," Butler said, dragging Harry out of his musings.

Artemis grinned at him while Butler wiped Harry's face clean.

* * *

Certain Artemis was sound asleep, Harry lowered himself out of the crib and began his crawl to the door. He would have liked to walk, but despite the combined efforts of Butler and himself, Harry was still unsteady on his feet. It was imperative that he was quiet, too; Artemis was becoming a lighter and lighter sleeper with each consecutive night. One footfall too many, and he would be awake and tearing picture books off of the bottom two shelves until the noise lured Butler into the nursery.

Harry made the mistake of thinking that the night would go smoothly when someone grabbed his foot.

"Fuck-" Harry seethed, whirling around. He managed to hold his tongue when he saw that it was just Artemis.

Which, honestly, wasn't that comforting. Artemis had apparently followed him out of the crib and halfway to the door without Harry hearing a thing.

"Orion," Artemis said, managing not to garble the name. He fixed Harry with a penetrating stare, then pointed somewhere behind Harry. Harry followed Artemis's gaze, and landed on the upper shelves of the bookcase.

The bottom shelves were home to picture books and other novelty children's books (the kinds with puppets or pieces of cloth inside), but on high shelves, there were simple chapter books - fables, fairy tales, bedtime stories... At the top were actual novels, albeit those geared towards children. Harry turned back to Artemis, and demanded in a low voice, "What?"

"Books," answered Artemis. His tone said it was obvious, which it was, but Harry didn't feel like he needed to be sassed by a literal toddler.

"You want books?" Harry asked, keeping his voice low enough that Butler hopefully wouldn't hear them through the baby monitor. It felt strange, speaking. Harry hadn't even considered that his silence might eventually seem odd to adults, but now that he was talking, he realized that all children started speaking at some point.

"Books," said Artemis.

Harry waited a moment to be sure Butler hadn't heard any of their exchange through the monitor, then said to Artemis, "Fine. Quiet."

Artemis seemed to understand, and sat back. Harry positioned himself to face the bookcase.

Harry, in previous practice sessions, had managed to figure out that magic was mostly about knowing what it actually was you wanted, and why. It wouldn't be enough to ask a door to open – you had to want something on the other side.

But Harry wasn't sure how to tackle this bookcase, or rather, he wasn't sure he could. Would magic consider "making my stupid toddler brother shut up and leave me alone" a valid reason? Would making Artemis leave him be so that he could leave the room too many steps away? Harry decided there was no harm in trying. The worst he could do was drop a book, and even then, the worst that could happen would be Butler coming in.

So Harry fixed the book case with a glare and thought, _Come down from there. I need to go to the library and I can't trust this kid to let me unless you come down from there._

It was contrived, but on his third try, the books shuddered. Harry took a deep breath, focusing again.

 _Please come down from there so that Artemis can have his books and I can leave._

The books slid off the shelf and began plummeting towards the floor.

Harry's heart jumped out of his chest and he flung his hands out. _QUIET!_

One by one, the books hit the floor, but not a single one made a sound. They landed silently, as if made out of – well – paper, stacking up in a pile at the base of the bookcase. Harry stared, wide-eyed and gawking, at the mountain of books before him.

Finally, he closed his mouth, and turned back to Artemis.

Artemis held his hands over his mouth, his whole face glowing with delight. "Books," he whispered, almost reverently. He wasted no time crawling over to them and digging into the pile of pages.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, and started towards the door. He opened it up without any issues, but before ducking out into the hallway, he turned back to his brother.

"Artemis."

Artemis looked up at him.

Harry pointed at the books, then the hole in the door, and then he put his index finger to his lips. "Secret," he said.

Artemis's brow twitched, and he mimicked the gesture. "Secret," he promised, before returning his full attention to the books.

The next morning, the books were sitting exactly where they had been when Butler tucked the twins in the previous night.

* * *

In previous years, September 1st had always been a cacophonous, openly emotional day at Platform 9 ¾. After all, it was the day the Hogwarts Express was loaded with young witches and wizards and sent off to the most beloved single location in all of magical Britain.

Except this September 1st, it wasn't like that at all.

It was considerably less crowded, with no muggle families or first-year muggleborn students. The muggle or muggleborn parents of halfbloods were notably absent. Few muggle- or mixed-blood students had chosen (or been allowed) to return to Hogwarts that year, leaving only the pureblood families and a dozen or so of other witches and wizards. They were somber, too. The parents spoke to their children in hushed voices, and those children only responded with "yes, Mum"s and "no, Mum"s.

This was all what Ron Weasley observed from over a copy of the _Daily Prophet._

No one on the platform who didn't know him personally could have spotted him as a Weasley. His hair had been dyed black, and his freckles covered with some light glamour. Hermione had shown him a simple muggle trick for changing the eyes – colored contact lenses, little discs muggles wore instead of glasses, but a version which turned his eyes lilac. As it turned out, most of the pureblood community could only spot a Weasley by red hair and freckles, so only a few minor changes were necessary for a disguise.

It was really the robes that did the trick, though – they were new. And no pureblood witch or wizard who sympathized with Voldemort would ever think to suspect someone in new robes of being a Weasley.

At first, Ron had wondered why he had been chosen for this job. His target would certainly recognize him after a second glance. But after being told the actual nature of his objective, it had made more sense.

After all, why would Draco Malfoy choose to trust someone he had never met before? No, a familiar face was best.

Ron spotted Draco's familiar face among the small gaggle of purebloods by the Hogwarts Express. Just as the intercepted letters implied, he was at Platform 9 ¾ to put some cousin or other on the train for their first year at Hogwarts. Ron felt a pang of sympathy for Draco's little cousin. Not only were they going to Hogwarts in what would undoubtedly be one of her darkest years ever, but the poor kid was also Draco's cousin.

How absolutely miserable.

Draco came over to the bench once his cousin was on the train, and Ron scooted aside to make room.

"Bit young to have one of your own, eh?" Ron said, using the accent Hermione had insisted he use. It was incredibly posh, and she had coached him on it for weeks. In case of eavesdroppers, apparently. Ron suspected she actually just hated the way he talked, but that was a conflict to resolve on a later date.

"No, it's my cousin," replied Draco, eyes fixed on the gleaming, red steam engine. "Her parents are preoccupied today."

Ron resisted a scoff. He knew full well what the girl's parents were "preoccupied" with. Licking Voldemort's shoes, specifically. He swallowed his disdain, and said instead, "A shame what sort of impression she's going to have of the place. Now that Old Voldy has his fingers in it."

Draco's full attention snapped over to Ron, his mouth agape. When he saw Ron's face, his brow furrowed, and his lips curled back. "Weas-?"

"Keep your damn voice down, you ponce," Ron cut him off, dropping the stupid accent for a sentence. He picked it up again as he continued, "Listen, Malfoy, I've got something of a proposal for you."

"I'm not interested."

"Then why haven't you hexed me yet?"

Draco and Ron locked gazes, neither budging for a long moment. Finally, Draco broke the silence. "I could be killed for talking to you, you know."

"I could be killed for showing up, but I'm here because it's important," Ron said. "Listen, the Order has a strong suspicion that you aren't as psyched about Old Voldy as you try to let on."

Draco flinched. "Stop calling him that."

"Why not? It isn't taboo. And I'm not into that _He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named_ business, at least not anymore," Ron stated. "He isn't worth it."

Draco regarded him skeptically for a moment. "What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"Nothing too dangerous. Well, something a little dangerous," Ron started. He caught Draco's look, and heaved a sigh. "You'll be risking your life every moment you cooperate with us until you die, or Old Voldy dies, and even after the fact, your fellow Death Eaters will still want your head on a spike. We need a spy."

"A spy?" parroted Draco.

"We need someone on the inside," Ron went on. "We've been hit by four raids in the last few weeks. We don't have the numbers to sustain many more. Malfoy, I know it's dangerous, but the Order is going to be stamped out by next Christmas if we don't have someone to warn us."

Draco pondered this for a moment, while Ron pretended to read his newspaper.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't turn you in to the Dark Lord right now," he said at length.

Ron cocked an eyebrow, fixing Draco with a piercing look over the newspaper. "We value human life. Old Voldy doesn't. If you fuck up while loyal to him, he'll kill you. If you fuck up while loyal to us, we'll at least try to save you."

The whistle screeched and the pistons hissed as the Hogwarts Express departed. Families waved and blew kisses to their children as the train carried them off to the shell of what once was the most magical place in the world. Draco watched it go, waving to his cousin as he spotted her through a window.

Slowly, families began disappirating, and the platform was filled with _cracks_ where not filled with the low rumble of conversation.

Draco turned to Ron. "If he finds out, your Order will come to my aid?"

"Yes."

"And my parents. If he tries to – to use them as leverage, or..."

"We won't let him use them against you. The Order protects."

Draco considered. "I'm not close to the Dark Lord."

"You're a Slytherin, aren't you? Isn't getting close to people with power supposed to be your specialty?" Ron asked.

Despite himself, despite everything, Draco found himself laughing. That morning, if someone had told Draco that Ron Weasley would ever consider "Slytherin" a strength in anyone, he would have hexed them and sent them to Voldemort himself to be ridiculed at and killed.

"You have an excellent point," said Draco, smiling despite the encroaching sense of horror as he realized what it was he was doing. "I'll be your Order's little spy. Information for protection. Your resident Slytherin."

Ron grinned. Goodness knew they could use one.


	6. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Harry breathed in the smell of sugar, leaning against a low shelf to steady himself.

After spending a year inside of Fowl Manor, only venturing so far as the gardens, getting out to Dublin was a welcome change of pace. It was like a reminder that the world wasn't limited to the nursery and whatever horrible thoughts chased him around his own head. A sweet shop, in particular, was a brilliant choice.

Butler's prediction that Artemis Sr. would return with Angeline's sense had proven astute. Luckily, the patriarch of the Fowls got back from France before Angeline made any irrevocable plans, so Harry and Artemis spent their birthday waiting around while their mother sorted through the sheer magnitude of gifts that had been sent. Gifts from businessmen, visionaries, foreign dignitaries, and royalty alike, and from all corners of the world. There were only a few that could actually be used for one-year-olds – a selection of picture books, quilts, stuffed animals, and other toys – but many more had been sent with Angeline herself in mind – dresses, jewelry, works of art, perfumes.

In any case, Angeline had become adamant that Artemis and Harry should get to choose a gift of their own, so to the city they went. September 2nd was a busy day for Artemis Sr. - as he had cleared September 1st up for his children – and he stayed at the manor to do some paperwork, but he insisted on the Major accompanying them as well as Butler.

The Major was an odd man. He was taller than even Butler, and far less respectful as well. He spoke frankly to Artemis Sr. and Angeline, although never unkindly. Mostly, Harry thought him strange because he almost never saw him. He was always stuck over Artemis Sr.'s shoulder, silent when not actively threatening ("warning," rather) someone. He was also quite open about his disdain for, well, everything.

"I hate these crowded shops," started the Major, not even bothering to keep his voice down. He made eye contact with the girl who ran the sweet shop. "What?"

She scuttled off, and the Major went back to looking around corners.

All Harry wanted was a quiet moment in a nice shop, away from Angeline's theatrics and Artemis's sass. He was sure he was going to get it, with Artemis, Angeline, and Butler in the bookshop across the street. But here the Major was, complaining about how close together the shelves were.

"It's like this place was designed as a death trap," said the Major, mostly just to Harry. "I get space is expensive, but at a certain point it's just irresponsible. Someone could jump out from around the corner and stab you at any moment."

 _Shut up and let me enjoy this,_ thought Harry.

"Hey, shop girl! Any idea why they have these things so close together?" the Major barked.

The poor girl about jumped out of her skin. Confused, she tried, "N- no, sir?"

"Well, it's very inconvenient and even more claustrophobic. It would be incredibly easy to conceal weaponry around here..."

Harry rolled his eyes, and wandered off. Let the Major have his little victory over that poor shop girl. Harry wanted some peace and quiet.

While he was leaving the sweet shop, Harry planned on running over to the bookstore and joining the others, but that plan was abandoned as soon as he stepped out of the door.

There. Across the street, trying to look inconspicuous even with the dawning realization that his "muggle attire" didn't match anyone else he could see, was a blond man with a face Harry would have happily ground into the cobblestone.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry blinked, not sure if he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. But his eyes didn't deceive him – that was Draco Malfoy, in leopard-print bellbottom pants, a Metallica t-shirt, and trench coat. He looked around, then started across the street, towards the alley.

Harry watched him, his legs frozen, and then he started after him all at once.

What was Draco doing in muggle Dublin? What was with that outfit? Harry wasn't sure what he planned to achieve by following Draco down the alley, or what he'd say if he were caught, but Draco was the first familiar face he'd seen in a year. He had to follow him.

And follow him he did.

Harry toddled after Draco as fast as his legs would carry him, ducking around pedestrians and around the corner. He spotted Draco ducking into a pub – the Black Hat Inn and Pub, specifically. It was notably void of tourists, and a sign in the window clearly called for "MUGGLE BORNS, HALF BLOODS, TRAITORS & SQUIBS" to beware.

Harry's heart leapt into his chest. A wizard pub. A slice of the magical world, just a few kilometers away from his prison for the past year.

Harry was ready to bolt for it when rough hands scooped him up.

"You little-" started the Major.

Harry yelped and kicked, but the Major's grip was unwavering. He was held up to eye-level, which with the Major meant that Harry was dangled well over the heads of other passers-by. "This sort of thing is the reason I never had children," the Major said.

Harry couldn't resist – maybe he was still giddy about seeing the pub – he stuck his tongue out at the Major.

The giant man curled his lips into a snarl, and before Harry knew what was happening, he was under the man's arm and being carried back towards the bookstore. "Let's see how your mother takes that kind of attitude, hm? You might get a lashing. Lord knows you need one," the Major said as he walked.

Harry didn't hold back on rolling his eyes, and the Major certainly noticed.

"Good lord, how does Butler deal with you?" he muttered. The Major frowned. "Which one are you, anyway?"

* * *

"I want some books."

Harry fixed Artemis with a glare. "You just got some new books."

Artemis glared right back. "They're boring. New books."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Take me to the library."

Artemis's vocabulary was expanding rapidly, though he only shared it with Harry. He knew words like page, chapter, fairy, gold, and _boring,_ and boy did he know how to string them together. Harry wanted to rip the boy's hair out.

"You can't go with me," Harry told him. "You'll make noise."

"No," objected Artemis. "I'll be quiet. I promise. The library – I want books, new books."

Harry shook his head, choosing to roll over in the crib instead of even trying to get to the library that night. "Neither of us are going anywhere if you're gonna act like this," he said.

Artemis's brow furrowed. It was one of the longest sentences Harry had ever used with him, and he was having issues understanding exactly what it meant. "Orion," started Artemis.

"No, shut up. Go to sleep," Harry interrupted, not looking at him.

No, Harry instead locked his eyes onto the baby monitor on the changing table.

 _Don't let Butler hear anything,_ Harry ordered it. He wasn't sure if it worked, but there was only one way to find out.

Harry rolled over and pinched Artemis in the shoulder. Artemis cried out, eyes wide. "Orion!" he shrieked.

"Shut up," said Harry, much louder than a whisper.

Artemis watched him, glaring, while Harry listened. No footsteps. No stirring outside the nursery. "Great," Harry said, satisfied. "Thanks, Arty." He squeezed his eyes shut, pictured the library, and disappirated with a _crack._

Harry held his breath, and didn't release it until he was certain all of his limbs were in the right place, and his footy pajamas weren't part of his skin. Satisfied, he exhaled, letting himself grin. Apparition was successful.

 _And now,_ Harry though, pulling his footy pajamas off, _to prepare to use it._

He placed his hands on the pajamas, and gave it an order.

 _Turn into robes._

* * *

Butler never considered himself to be too fond of children. He certainly loved his baby sister, and had been quite good at taking care of her, but as for children in general? They were sticky, and loud, and emotional. He was high-strung as it was – children sent his brain into overdrive and just stressed him out in general.

It was for this reason, among others, that he was so tickled with the Fowl twins. Despite being so young, both were very mature, and only cried if the other started crying. They balanced each other out in most ways. Orion was generally a tidy eater, so Butler could leave him be while cleaning up after Artemis. Artemis could be given a book or a set of wooden blocks, and would be still so that Butler could keep Orion from bashing his head open. Orion always cooperated when it was time to bathe or get dressed, so Butler could focus on wrestling Artemis into his clothes. Artemis clung to Butler on outings, so he needn't worry about him while stopping Orion from wandering off.

And in spite of all their differences, the one similarity they had was that they rarely, if ever fought, or got emotional, or caused problems for one another.

At one year and a month old, Butler's heart sank to see that their harmonious existence had been thrown out of whack.

They sat across from each other in high-chairs, glaring daggers while they spooned oatmeal into their mouths – Artemis sloppily, and Orion with great care. They'd been at odds since Butler woke them up that morning. Well, "woke them up" wasn't quite accurate. They'd been awake and hateful already when Butler went to get them out of bed.

"Boys," Butler said warily, "if you hate each other so much, maybe you should stop staring at each other?"

Neither took his suggestion to heart.

The tension built up between them all day, until finally it broke that evening before bed.

Butler was arranging the sheets in the crib when a busy, purposeful _hem-hem_ sounded behind him. Butler turned around, brows raised, to see Artemis holding himself up by the bookcase. Butler was a bit confused – Artemis didn't like to stand when he could sit. "Did you want a book, Artemis?" asked Butler.

Artemis cleared his throat again, and said, only garbling his words a little bit, "I'm not sleeping with Orion ever again."

Butler was just being amazed by Artemis's sudden eloquence when another voice piped up.

"Well, then I'm not sleeping with Artemis ever again, either."

Butler whirled around to where Orion was standing, by the window, with his arms folded over his chest. To Artemis, Orion seethed, "You big baby."

Butler looked back to Artemis, who was red in the face. "Orion, you-"

"Big baby! Can't handle not getting what he wants!"

"I'm – I'm not a big baby!"

"Look, you're crying! Baby!"

"What is going on?" demanded Butler. This was too much. Artemis and Orion had never even spoken a word before that night, and now they were engaged in a full-scale argument with grammatical structure and Butler was trapped in the middle of it. "Calm down!"

"Sorry, Butler," they said in unison, both sounding equally ashamed of themselves. When he looked, they were still both staring daggers at each other.

Butler sighed, rubbing his temples. The book said that toddlers weren't supposed to be stringing together coherent sentences until about a year and a half. How both Fowl twins had developed complicated, and antagonistic, speech before even then was beyond him. But Butler was trained to respond to unexpected situations, and if this was anything, it was unexpected.

"If you two can stop trying to kill each other for a moment," started Butler, "then I can speak to your parents and see if they think its time to move you to separate rooms."

Both seemed thrilled with the idea of separate rooms. "But," added Butler, in a tone that made both Artemis and Orion stand to attention, "if they decide that you are to stay in the nursery, _you will stay in the nursery._ And I don't want to hear any complaining about it. Understand?"

"I understand. Arty, did you get that? Or was that too many words?" said Orion.

"I understood perfectly, cactus-brain," snapped Artemis.

Butler felt a headache blossom in the side of his head.

He just watched Artemis and Orion grow up before his very eyes, and by god, it was painful.

* * *

Angeline, at the revelation that her boys had learnt to speak, was immediately reduced to tears. Artemis Sr. was much more level-headed, and agreed it was time for them to have separate rooms. Angeline wouldn't allow it ("They're only a year old!") so a compromise was made. They were moved to a larger bedroom that overlooked the east garden, with a bed for either boy on opposite ends of the space.

Harry wished he'd spoken up sooner. Being able to express himself made a huge difference – he was able to ask for some kind of food besides oatmeal, and he got blankets that weren't powder-pink, and he was event able to acquire a corn broom. That last request had raised eyebrows in the maid's quarters, but now Harry had a broom under his bed, ready to be enchanted as soon as he figured that out.

Artemis had seemingly taken to their newfound individualism just as well. His side of the room had become filled with books, newspapers, and journals. The smell of ink clung to everything in his space, and he would wind up having his sheets replaced numerous times due to black and blue stains from midnight note-taking.

However, exposing themselves as smart enough to talk, also exposed them as smart enough to learn.

Cathy O'Brien was an old friend of Artemis Sr., having attended school with him in the year below. Being single-handedly responsible for his passing English courses up to his graduation (and even getting him out of a pinch in college), Artemis Sr. felt he owed it to Cathy to make sure she made it as a private tutor.

Having connected her to dozens of clients in the European aristocracy over the years, Artemis Sr. finally introduced her to her strangest case of all: teaching toddlers the intricacies of Shakespeare.

* * *

Five minutes into their first lesson and Harry was thoroughly done with Shakespeare.

"I'm bored," Harry stated, when Cathy made the mistake of taking a breath.

"I'm not. Go on, Ms. O'Brien," Artemis said, eyes flashing at Harry. Artemis's speech had improved significantly in the last month, no longer garbled and slurred by his inarticulate toddler tongue.

Harry scowled.

"Thank you, Artemis," said Cathy. "As I was saying, Shakespeare is an excellent subject for study not only for his technical prowess, but also the cultural impact of..."

Harry slumped in his seat, having flashbacks to Professor Binns's class. People were dying and an entrance to the magical subculture of Dublin was a block away from the sweet shop – yet here he was, trapped in the drawing room learning muggle stuff because he made the mistake of looking too intelligent.

"Ms. O'Brien?" came Artemis.

"Yes?" she answered.

Artemis threw a filthy look towards Harry, and spoke his question with an antagonistic edge. "You mentioned that Shakespeare started writing in 1590. Would you mind explaining more of the culture at the time his plays were written?" He made a sickening grin. "I think an in-depth understanding of the landscape his works were written in would really help us understand the subtext of the material."

Cathy was delighted. Harry was in hell.


	7. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

Not four months since being approached by Ron Weasley at the station, Draco knelt before the Dark Lord with his gaze respectfully averted. It was finally time to put the plan into action.

Voldemort studied him curiously. The Malfoys had always been a loyal family, but Narcissa never attempted to advance he status beyond that of a trophy wife, and Lucius was too meek to be of much use. That the product of these two factors – mediocrity, and a willingness to settle – would come before him and demand responsibility, and trust, was amusing. He supposed it was only natural; if Voldemort had grown up with such lackluster parents, he too would have been willing to do anything to break the cycle of incompetence.

"So tell me, Draco," said Voldemort, "where exactly this proposal of yours came from?"

"It was yesterday morning," began Draco, "while I was on my way home from the Ministry. I took a scenic route -"

"Why?"

"I always do on Saturday afternoons. It helps me to stay sharp after spending all week pushing papers," explained Draco.

Voldemort nodded, satisfied. "Go on, then."

"A came upon a stranger in the road. A Weasley."

"And you didn't kill him on sight?"

Draco flinched, but went on, "No, my Lord. He was wearing glamour, and I didn't recognize him as such until after he had started a conversation. By then, my interest was piqued, and I let him prattle on," he elaborated. "I believe it was the second-youngest, Ronald. But again, he wore so much glamour, only his most exaggerated features stood out, and the Weasley men share most of those."

"Such as?" prompted Voldemort.

"A large nose and big red ears," said Draco. After a beat, he added, "A reliable source of laughter in the Slytherin common room. Ask anyone. My Lord."

That got a chuckle out of Voldemort, but only one. "I see. And this Weasley, he offered you to join the Order?" said Voldemort.

Draco nodded. "Yes, my Lord. He said that they needed a spy. Apparently my having gone to school with Weasleys would have been enough to convince me to betray my blood and my Lord," Draco said. "I... I let him hold onto that fallacy as I left. Just in case."

Voldemort hummed and nodded, considering.

"You did well to inform me of this. Draco," said Voldemort, "look me in the eye."

It was visibly difficult, but Draco raised his head to meet the Dark Lord's gaze.

And in a moment, Voldemort was plummeting into his mind. It was an organized brain, with memories and thoughts stacked neatly on shelves, wrapped up in parchment and tied with twine. Each labeled with a date an a synopsis (August 3rd, checking the mail, August 8th, tea with Mother). These were meaningless to Voldemort – a memory was useful, but what he wanted was a secret.

He found it in the back of Draco's mind, a sturdy leather healer's bag like the one Madame Pomfrey kept in the Hospital Wing. Voldemort snapped it open, and inside were countless little parcels no bigger than an apple. None were marked.

Voldemort sighed, realizing there was only one way to figure out just how truthful Draco's tale truly was. He began ripping the paper off of the memories, sometimes up to three at a time, or however many would fit in his hand. Hateful thoughts about his father, inappropriate crushes, lies told to friends and lies told to enemies. Every night spent away from the house without permission, every moment of doubt that would imply weakness, and every sink he'd ever steadied himself on while panicking, it all became known to Voldemort.

Voldemort left Draco's mind satisfied.

"Very well, Draco," said Voldemort, watching the boy's head fall again. "I shall grant your request, and with it I shall give you new orders."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"You will go to the Order and tell them that you will spy for them. You will tell them that I think you are spying for me. And you will feed them lies, while bringing me the truth," Voldemort said, liking the sound of it more and more as he went on. "To solidify their trust in you... Well, there should be an offering."

"An offering, my Lord?" asked Draco.

Voldemort nodded, getting up and pacing as he was caught up in the plan. "Yes, yes, an offering," he mused. "We have three dozen mudbloods held prisoner in Azkaban at the moment. I planned on dealing them before Gringotts, but... I think my executioner could use a weekend off. We'll have the Order do away with them instead."

"Do you mean...?"

"Yes, yes, I like it!" said Voldemort, a wide, toothy grin taking over his face. He turned to face Draco directly. "Tell the Order of a raid over London. Three dozen Death Eaters will be there. We'll control the mudbloods with the Imperius Charm, and design them to lose. The wizard world is rid of thirty-six mudbloods, all thanks to the Order. And yourself, of course, Draco."

Draco nodded. "Yes, my Lord."

"Go. Weave your web of deception and catch those gullible flies," ordered Voldemort.

Draco bid farewell, and left Voldemort alone in his study.

 _What a loyal servant,_ thought Voldemort fondly. Part of his good mood was the new power he had over the Order – and part of it was knowing that everyone, even those who seem uniquely loyal and competent like Snape, was replaceable.

And what a fitting replacement Draco was, indeed.

* * *

If Harry had thought that studying English was dull, studying maths was torture. Of course Artemis had, at some point, taught himself enough of the basics to wow their tutor, and come up with contrived questions with incredibly long, boring answers, which he always asked while glaring at Harry.

Science, too, was a massive pain. Harry had forgotten most of what he'd learnt of science in muggle school since finding out he was a wizard, and it wasn't coming back to him in a hurry. Their tutor proclaimed Artemis a prodigy by the end of their third session, and was constantly upping the ante no matter how hard Harry struggled to keep up.

Then there was history. If Harry had thought History of Magic was a snooze, then all of muggle history since the time of Christ was a riot – meaning, his tutor kept snapping his fingers at Harry to wake him up. An absolute blast.

Days of the week had meant little to Harry after his rebirth, but since Artemis Sr. instituted his regimen of study, Harry yearned for the weekend to come.

When Saturday finally rolled around, so did Harry in his covers, away from the sun spilling in from the east-facing window.

There was a knock at the door, waking Artemis and forcing Harry out of his slumber. A moment later, Artemis Sr. barged in, followed closely by Butler and the Major. "Rise and shine, boys! It's a beautiful January morning and we have plenty of work to do," said Artemis Sr.

Artemis obediently got out of bed. Harry, meanwhile, pulled his covers over his head. "You too, Orion," said Artemis Sr. "Or do you want to sleep at the foot of me and your mother's bed? Or perhaps under the stove would be shadier for you?"

Harry groaned. "It's Saturday, you psychopath," said Harry. "Can't I get some sleep around here?"

"Butler, would you...?"

"Of course, Master."

The next thing Harry knew, he was being hoisted out of bed by the back of his t-shirt. Another thing he'd insisted on was no more footy pajamas. Now he slept in his boxers (he was finally trusted to use the toilet, thank god. Artemis was potty trained barely two days after Harry, not to be outdone) and a t-shirt.

"Hey," snapped Harry, bleary-eyed.

"Hay is for horses, Orion," Artemis supplied with a shit-eating grin.

"I'm going to dye everything you own pink, you miserable sack of-"

"Language! Where in the world did you two learn so much of it?" interrupted Butler. It wasn't yet eight AM and already his daily headache was blossoming under his cranium.

Artemis Sr. looked between his sons and Butler, his brow creasing as it occurred to him that he maybe should have let the toddlers get some damn sleep. But if he truly was conflicted, he pushed it out of his brain, because what he said next was, "If everyone is done being immature and disrespectful, go get yourselves washed up and meet me in my study by eight fifteen. Butler?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Make sure Orion wears his good clothes – none of those ill-fitting casual rags. I want _both_ of them to be presentable," said Artemis Sr.

"I'll make sure of it, sir," said Butler.

"Excellent. Well, Major, let's go get everything ready," Artemis Sr. finished. He and the Major left, leaving Butler with the twins.

"You can set me down now," Harry said after a beat.

Butler sighed, and put him on the floor. "Orion, please don't disrespect your father like that again," Butler pleaded. "The man works incredibly hard and only wants you and Artemis to succeed."

Harry shrugged. "I don't know how I'm supposed to succeed if I'm dozing off on my feet," Harry said. "I'm a growing kid. I need my sleep for protein, or whatever."

"Sleep doesn't give you proteins," Artemis said from across the room.

" _Sleep doesn't give you proteins,"_ mocked Harry. "What do you know? You're like two."

Butler pinched the bridge of his nose. "Orion, I get that you think it's funny when people have recurring dreams about slamming your head in a car door, but if you could tone it down for just a few hours, I would really appreciate it. Your father would, too. He's trying to teach you two the family business."

That piqued Harry's interest. "What is the family business, anyway? Father's always so vague about it," Harry said. It felt weird calling Artemis Sr. "father." Maybe if Harry made it to his teenage years at Fowl Manor, he would go through a rebellious phase and start calling him "Artemis Sr." like he did in his head.

Butler pursed his lips. "It's a bit complicated, and not my place to say. Your father will let you know if you'll get dressed, already," Butler said. He added, "In your nice clothes, of course."

Artemis scoffed, already halfway dressed in a buttoned shirt and silk shorts. "Orion, have you really not figured it out yet?"

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but clamped it shut when he saw the look on Artemis's face. "You mean, you know what the family business is?" Harry asked.

"Yes, do you, Artemis?" Butler added with raised eyebrows.

Artemis smirked. "Of course I do. I do _read_ after all." Although Artemis had always had an affinity for books, it wasn't until Cathy taught him that he learnt to read. He'd made frequent and excessive use of the skill. He also frequently and excessively reminded Harry of it.

"Well?" demanded Harry.

"We're thieves," Artemis said, pulling his shoes on. "Ever since the eleventh century, we've been a family of prolific criminals."

Harry let out a laugh, but stopped when he saw Butler's face. "He's joking, right?" Harry asked. "Or, like, mistaken? Repeating urban legends because he's too dumb to tell fact from fiction?"

Butler shook his head. "No, I'm afraid your brother is right, Orion. The Fowls make most of their money by illegitimate means. Not so much _thievery,_ per se, but there's certainly some shady business practices going on at the upper levels of your father's enterprise," Butler said. "Corporate fraud, if you will."

"And Father's going to start teaching us today," Artemis added, his excitement barely contained. "I've already brushed up on the lingo and basic etiquette of business. I wonder what he's going to start us off with..."

Harry let Artemis talk himself to death while he pulled on the nice clothes Angeline insisted always be in his wardrobe. Harry hadn't been excited for a morning spent with Artemis Sr. to begin with – now, he dreaded it.

* * *

"There they are, my little prodigies," said Artemis Sr. as Butler closed the door to the study. It was just Artemis, Harry, and their father. The Major was in the library, tending to Artemis Sr.'s usual business, and Butler was preparing the twins' breakfast.

Artemis Sr. rose from behind his desk, regarding his children thoughtfully. "Artemis, widen your stance a bit. Good. Shoulders back. Orion – stand up straight. Chin up. Arms at your side," he said. "The secret to being taken seriously is looking serious. Poor posture doth not a good businessman make. If you two cannot correct your stance on your own, you will take yoga with a professional three times a week. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Father," they said in unison. Artemis spoke clearly, but Harry muttered it, and that did not go unnoticed by Artemis Sr.

He tutted. "Speak clearly, or not at all. Muttering is a sign of uncertainty, and uncertainty is a sign of weakness. I will not tolerate it," he said. "Please don't make me hire a speech coach as well as a yoga instructor, Orion."

"Yes, Father," Harry said, dragging out the syllables.

Artemis Sr. glared at him. "We will address your attitude later. For now-"

"Are we also going to address you being a crook later?" Harry asked.

Artemis looked at him, wide-eyed, and Artemis Sr.'s words died in his throat. A beat passed, where Harry met Artemis Sr.'s gaze and dared him to speak. Soon, Artemis Sr.'s face split into a dark, toothy grin. "Actually, my boy, we're going to address that at this very moment. Now, if you're quite through interrupting..."

Artemis Sr. returned to his seat behind the desk, hands folded neatly atop it.

"It is true. We Fowls first made our fortune hundreds of years ago by illegitimate means, and through illegitimate means we have maintained it. Fraud, fortune, call it what you will. But that doesn't change the two things it objectively is: a tradition, and an effective one at that." Artemis Sr. let that lay in the air between them, before going on. "I ask of you boys not only to respect and uphold this tradition, but to build upon it and evolve it – through your own genius and vision – as every Fowl before you has. I put this family in a position where brute force and physical theft is rarely necessary, where legal loopholes and a few friends in high places can make a man a millionaire. What you do with that foundation, what you build upon it, is up to you."

Harry glanced at Artemis, who regarded his father like some kind of god.

"But that is for a later date. For now, you two are to observe, and learn. After breakfast, of course," finished Artemis Sr., getting out of his chair. "Follow along, children. We must eat quickly if we're to reach London in time for our meeting."


	8. Chapter Seven

**AN/ i don't usually do these but i wanted to a) thank everyone who has fav'ed, reviewed, and enjoyed the story so far big mcthankies and b) say that updates will slow down for a while bc i'm travelling around a bit and i'm not gonna be at my laptop as often. things oughta pick up again soon, tho, so there's that. anyway, i just wanted to put this lil boi out there before going on this short break. thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

"You ready?" Ron asked.

Neville took a deep breath, nodding. The way he quaked betrayed him, though – fidgeting fingers, a glistening brow, the subtle green-gray hue to his skin. It all culminated in Neville looking an anxious wreck.

If he were anything but, Ron would have been worried. Three dozen muggleborns being puppeteered about London, wrecking havoc on the whim of Lord Voldemort. It was enough to make anyone sick, but what was truly stressful was the Order's role.

Saving them, but tricking Voldemort into thinking they'd killed them.

Twelve Order members, which included Ron and Neville, were dispersed about London in muggle clothes, each with three homunculus in their pocket designed to take on the form of any one of the muggleborns with a simple enchantment. Another spell would mimick the wounds supposedly inflicted. It would have been simple, had the victims not been under the Imperius Charm. As it was, the Order had to do enough damage to the muggleborns to sever the connection between the victim and the Death Eater controlling them, but not enough to cause fatal harm.

In the heat of battle, it seemed like an insurmountable problem. The only thing they could do was try.

The stones on Ron and Neville's rings shifted from yellow to red, and sure enough, as their eyes snapped upward, a swarm of cloaked, masked figures flew overhead on brooms.

Muggles were gasping and pointing upward. "Let's get this started," Neville said, his jaw set.

Ron and Neville started towards the swarm.

* * *

Harry actually recognized the name of the company Artemis Sr. was doing business with. Vernon Dursley had complained at length about some techie startup blowing his own Grunnings out of the water, and this was it: Electronouveau, which made all electronics from drills (Vernon's corner of the market, or it had been, anyway) to motherboards and back again.

The building was much nicer than the one Grunnings had, made with shining steel and hurricane-proof glass instead of mundane brick and mortar. The receptionist immediately recognized Artemis Sr., and just as soon was falling over herself to see to his every whim. She offered him water, a soft drink, a hard drink, cookies, sandwiches, and a manicure all in a single breath, but Artemis Sr. waved away every offer.

"No, thank you, Eugenia. I would simply like to see Monsieur Beaufort for our three o'clock," said Artemis Sr.

Within moments of his request, Artemis Sr., the Major, Harry, and little Artemis were seated in a large conference room with Beaufort and what appeared to be a lawyer. The large window behind Beaufort gave a breathtaking view of the London sprawl, but Harry wasn't in a state to enjoy it. He was still livid about being stuck with a family of criminals.

"You can't intimidate me, Fowl," said Beaufort. "And you can't scare me into holding back because your children are here. I made my decision – we're done."

Artemis Sr. beamed at him. "First of all, I would like to thank you for the wonderful learning opportunity you've created for my children. Secondly, we're only done when the Fowls have no more use for you, and unfortunately for yourself, Monsieur, your company is an incredibly valuable resource," he said. "We won't be letting you off the hook so easily."

Beaufort's face turned violet, but his lawyer put a hand on his shoulder before the man could say anything too damning.

"Master Fowl, with all due respect – and this isn't a legal statement, but rather a more intimate one – Monsieur Beaufort fears for his life. Enemies of yours have become enemies of his, and he hasn't the resources to protect his family," the lawyer said. "Pulling out of your arrangement is the only safe option at this point."

Harry watched with hateful eyes as Artemis Sr. opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. "What the hell is that?" he asked instead, eyes wide.

Harry followed his gaze just in time to see a crowd of black blurs fly passed the window.

* * *

Ron's legs burned as he ran down the road after the muggleborns. He spied a few familiar faces among the crowds of panicking muggles, poorly disguised in minimal glamour and inaccurate muggle clothes, obviously having the wands drawn - and yet, in the chaos on the street, Ron would never have noticed them if he hadn't known they were there: Death Eaters.

Curses, hexes, jinxes – they rained down on London from above, shattering pavement and striking the odd muggle, resulting in unresponsive limbs and painful boils. The muggleborns couldn't cast the Killing Curse while under the Imperius, as their will was not their own, but that didn't hinder the mechanics of slower, more painful deaths for muggles.

One finally held still long enough for Ron to train his wand on them. Of course, they had to hold still at some point.

How else did Voldemort expect the Order to kill them?

Letting his rage guide his wand, Ron snarled and fired a spell.

* * *

Whatever criminal disputes the Fowls had with Beaufort and his company were forgotten.

Every face in the conference room was pressed to the glass window, gaping at the destruction unfolding below. Colored lights, falling buildings, fires – and those dark blurs darting around all of it, spreading the destruction across the city. It was like nothing they'd ever seen before – except for Harry, for whom it was all too familiar.

"We have to get out of here," the Major said, having only allowed himself a moment of macabre fascination to assess the situation. "Master, children, let's go."

"What about me?" bleated Beaufort reflexively.

"What about you?" the Major snapped. He scooped Harry and Artemis up in either arm, and ran to the exit with Artemis Sr. at his side.

The ground rumbled, and Harry feared for a moment that the Electronouveau building was going to collapse. But only for a moment – because the very moment next, his fears were confirmed.

* * *

Neville fired two high-powered stunning charms, both that could be mistaken for far more fatal hexes at a distance. They impacted against the back of a muggleborn, knocking them behind a cab and surely out of the Death Eater's possession.

He ducked around spells and falling rocks, lost in the action until he came upon the muggleborn. His heart gave a pang – he recognized her from Hogwarts. A Ravenclaw, maybe? - but he bottled up the emotion and went to work with the homunculus, pulling it out of his pocket and enchanting it to look like her. He added broken bones, and wounds on the back, then enlarged it to her size.

A spell flew over the cab and Neville's head, smashing into the building behind him. Neville just had time to look and see the glowing veins rise up from the foundation before he disappirated with the muggleborn in his arms.

As soon as he disappeared, the building started to come down.

* * *

The floor gave out beneath them, and the ceiling followed.

Harry screamed freely, as did Artemis and even their father, but the Major just set his jaw and positioned himself so that the twins were beneath him. Slabs of concrete, insulation, pipes, and other materials closed in on them, blocking out the light and choking them with dust. Harry flashed back to nights spent in the cupboard under the stairs, heart racing with dread and claustrophobia -

 _CRACK!_

* * *

There were two possessed muggleborns left, made to look as though they were fleeing the scene of their apparent slaughter. Ron pursued them, alongside Cho, Neville, and Seamus, wands firing while a tall steel-beamed building continued to crumble behind them.

* * *

Harry opened his eyes to gentle waves beating up against a beach. He blinked, not quite sure where he had apparated for a moment. The scent of saltwater and driftwood jogged his memory, and Harry hopped to his feet.

A short distance away stood Shell Cottage, abandoned, with only a colorful beaded wind chime hanging over the porch to imply that anyone had ever been there before at all.

Someone groaned behind him, and Harry jerked around. The Major, his head bleeding and his eyes bleary, was curled up in the sand with Artemis still clutched under one arm. Artemis wiggled free, squinting against the sunshine as he took in the surrounding cape. "Where... Is this where you go all of the time?" asked Artemis, bracing himself against the Major's unconscious form.

"Er, no. Not important right now, actually," said Harry, going over to the Major. His head injury, although bloody, didn't look fatal. A concussion at the least, but if treated, the worst would be the scarring. Harry pulled off his sweater vest and pressed it to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding.

Death Eaters. Death Eaters attacking London – and in broad daylight, no less.

"Orion?"

Harry sighed. "What is it now, Artemis?"

"Where's Father?"

Harry's gaze snapped over to Artemis, then back around the surrounding area, searching for Artemis Sr. He didn't see him. "Shit," Harry said under his breath.

"Okay, Artemis, keep pressure on the Major's head," Harry said, his stomach already turning at the thought of what he was returning to, and who he was returning to it for. "I'm gonna go get your stupid dad."

Artemis glared at him. " _Our_ stupid dad. If he's anyone's stupid dad at all," said Artemis, but he did as Harry asked and took over pressing the vest to the Major's head.

"Whatever," Harry said. And with a _crack,_ he was gone.

* * *

Harry apparated in the midst of the wreckage, but he noted the absence of falling fire or terrified shrieking. The raid was over. Harry wondered how many dead there were. How many wizards and witches? How many innocent muggles?

It made him livid.

Harry ducked around the rubble as best he could, dodging emergency vehicles, first responders, and reporters alike. Harry rolled his eyes. Reporters. Muggle or magic, they were always the quickest to descend on a tragedy and rip the sinews from it like vultures. Harry wasn't what they could do to make this seem much worse, though.

Once he was sure he was out of view of any cameras or live reporters, Harry started apparating as close to the Electronouveau building as he could. _Crack, crack, crack,_ until he was picking through the rubble as he went. It wound up being quicker than expected – ordering the wreckage to disappear, become formless, or be light as a feather made quick work into getting into the ruined building.

"Oh, Artemis," Harry called. "Artemis I, where did you go off to?"

In the thick of it, splintered wood, concrete, and bent steel was all crushed together so tight that the only way Artemis Sr. wasn't certainly crushed was if he had somehow been lucky enough to be stuck in a pocket of what had until recently been the seventh floor.

And, miraculously, that was exactly what had happened.

Laying unconscious over a pile of insulation and drywall, Artemis Sr. was pinned in place by the floor above, which had landed more or less on his leg. Harry crawled through a narrow opening in the wreckage, the only light the being the blue-green glow from his shirt (which Harry had ordered to light the way).

"Good grief," Harry said, as he lowered himself into the little pocket.

Harry's voice stirred Artemis Sr., who could make out Harry's face in the light provided from his magic shirt. "Oh... It's you – er – my son," Artemis Sr. said, bleary.

"Orion," supplied Harry. "Come on, you miserable old convict."

Harry took Artemis Sr. by the hands and disappirated.

* * *

When Harry got back to Shell Cottage, the Major had returned to his senses. He sat upright, holding the sweater vest to his head himself, with Artemis seated on a rock beside him. Artemis leapt up when he saw his father, but recoiled when he saw the twisted, bloody mass of protruding bone and bruises that was his leg.

"Orion, you did that on purpose," snapped Artemis.

"I found the idiot like this," Harry said. "I think he's a despicable and immoral husk of a man, but I don't want him dead. Geez."

"Where- what's going on?" asked the Major, still not wholly himself after his head injury.

Artemis helped Harry to sit Artemis Sr. upright. Both men had hit their heads at some point, but that didn't stop their senses from returning to them.

Artemis Sr. recovered first, fixing both boys with a glare. "Do you mind explaining what's going on? How did we get from... from the building to this beach so quickly?" His eyes fixed on Harry. "Orion?"

The Major was glowering at him too. Harry sighed. "I never wanted to do this, but I guess I'll have to try to make it work," he said. He made sure he had both of their full attention before going on. He took a deep breath, held his hands out so his palms faced them, and said, " _Obliviate."_

It didn't work at first. Nothing ever worked at first.

Artemis Sr. and the Major shared a glance. "What?" Artemis Sr. said.

"Yeah, Orion. _What?"_ Artemis added.

Harry focused, and tried again. _I want them to forget this place and forget that I can do magic. I want them to remember making it out of the building and being taken in by first responders instead._

"I said," Harry tried, " _Obliviate!"_

There was a flash, and a whizzing sound, and then Artemis Sr. and the Major stared dumbfounded into nothing.

"I can't believe that worked," Harry said, hands still raised.

"What just happened?" demanded Artemis, stepping into Harry's periphery but not daring to stand directly in front of him, lest he suffer the same fate as the adults.

Harry explained, "I erased their memory, is all. They should remember being picked up by first responders, instead of teleporting instantaneously across the country. A bit easier to explain, y'know?"

Harry dusted his hands off on his silk shorts, which had been rendered tattered and bloody from his excursion through the remains of the Electronouveau building. Harry turned to face Artemis. "Well?" he said. "Grab onto them. We need to go back."

Artemis blanched. "Go – go back? _There?"_

Harry shrugged. "The danger's gone. Besides, there should be a couple of ambulances around. We'll pop up, tell them we climbed out of the rubble – really work those tear ducts – and say that our poor daddy is hurt and our bodyguard is totally out of it," Harry said. "We'll be taken to the hospital and they'll patch 'em right up. So quit whining and grab on."

* * *

Draco had always had an affinity for healing magic. Potions, salves, charms, and other remedies had piqued his interest in his fifth year, when Umbridge had been so interested in what careers the students would take. He'd studied in private for a while, but hadn't made use of his skills until now.

Running up and down rows of confused and injured muggleborns, Draco juggled roots and creams and his own wand until he was red in the face. He was beaming the whole time. Today, three very important things had happened: firstly, Voldemort was convinced of Draco's loyalty, secondly, three dozen muggleborns had been freed from Azkaban. And thirdly?

The Order was thirty-six stronger than it had been the day before.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

It was after sundown, and well after visiting hours were over, that Angeline arrived at the hospital. Normally, no one would have been allowed beyond the thick, gray double-doors blocking the hallway from the rest of the wing, but Angeline had donated a substantial amount of money to several hospitals across Europe as well as developing countries. If she hadn't funded this particular hospital already, everyone knew Angeline Fowl and how eager she was to put money towards a good cause.

All of this is to say that the staff had fallen over themselves to make sure Angeline could visit her family, no matter the hour.

"My babies," sobbed Angeline, gliding across the room like a wisp towards her children.

It was impossible to hug both Harry and Artemis at the same time, as they were seated in different beds, but Angeline did her best. Both boys wound up receiving a fierce hug and wet, sloppy kisses.

"I was so worried. It came on the news, and I knew where your father was supposed to be and I-" Angeline said, gripping either boys' hand so tightly that her knuckles were white.

"I understand, Mother," said Artemis. "Please, there's no need to speak."

Angeline's face turned from white to red, and suddenly she was on her feet and heatedly pacing around the room. "No need to speak? No need?" she started. "No, I ought to have spoken up long ago – I've been telling Arty for years to go legitimate, that these ventures of his would get him killed one day. But he always had an excuse, and I always let him get away with it. Now – now my children are in the hospital, and he's lucky to still be alive!"

Harry and Artemis shared a look. Neither had seen her like this before.

"Lucky to be alive, indeed," Angeline said under her breath. "Just wait until I get to his bedside – he certainly won't think so then. The Fowls are going legitimate now – there will be no if's, or's, or objections about it. Butler!"

Butler leaned into the hospital room. "Yes, my Lady?" he said.

"Keep an unwavering guard over these boys. I'm going to see my husband and discuss the future security of our family with him," Angeline said.

Not waiting for a response, Angeline pushed passed Butler and stormed into the hall, snapping at a nurse to take her to Artemis Fowl I. Butler closed the door behind him, waiting until Angeline's busy footfalls couldn't be heard to finally turn on the boys.

"Please understand that your father's business ventures usually go a lot smoother than this," he said at length.

 _Not that it matters now,_ thought Harry, rolling over in the hospital bed. Forget the Fowls dropping centuries of criminal tradition – Voldemort was not only gutsy enough to mess with foreign countries under the cover of darkness, but also murder muggles and fell buildings in broad daylight.

Harry had wanted a year or two more to prepare everything he needed in private, at a reasonable age. After today, that obviously wasn't an option. Harry turned over all of the things he had yet to acquire in his head – a cauldron, a wand, an owl, robes, ingredients, books – not to mention hiding it all. Fowl Manor was big, but Harry's only privacy was that allowed by Artemis's ability to keep a secret. He needed somewhere away from the Fowls, where he could hide his wizarding supplies and practice real magic – not the strange, unstructured version of magic he'd been using.

If one good thing had come out of the Death Eater raid, it was the comfort Harry derived from knowing he could apparate to just the place to suit his needs.

-O-

Harry and Artemis hadn't sustained any serious injuries. A few scrapes, cuts, and bruises, but nothing that couldn't be cured with a bandage and time. As such, they were released from the hospital the very next morning, and promptly sent back to Ireland with Butler. Angeline stayed behind with Artemis Sr. and the Major. The doctors were seriously concerned about the state of Artemis Sr.'s leg, which would likely need to be amputated, and Angeline was adamant about staying around for it.

In any case, Harry was laying in his own bed that night, and though he would have loved to sleep, he had a million things to do and no time at all to do them.

It was eleven thirty when he rolled out of bed and started to pull his slippers onto his feet. He crept around to the trunk at the end of his bed, where a pair of transfigured robes and boots lay at the bottom, hidden by candy wrappers, stray socks and t-shirts, and other wayward things. Harry dug them out, and was ready to disappirate when Artemis piped up from across the room.

"Where are you going?"

Harry almost leapt out of his skin. Artemis had turned a blind eye to Harry's nocturnal outings for the past few months, livid for not being included in them. Harry whirled on Artemis. He'd forgotten how quietly he woke up, and how little noise it took to rouse him.

"Pardon?" said Harry, quickly regaining his bearings.

Artemis was sitting up in bed, blue eyes fixed on him, unwavering. "Where are you going? The library?" His gaze narrowed, making Harry's insides squirm. "To that beach? Where do you go all the time?"

Harry sighed, wondering if it would be worth it to try Obliviating Artemis at this point.

 _No, he'd find out again way too quickly,_ Harry thought. The proximity alone would never allow for Harry to keep his coming and going a secret from Artemis – not to mention how sharp the kid was. It would be a waste of a mind to wipe his memory every time he asked a question.

"Orion, I think we need to talk about your secret," Artemis said.

"No, I don't think we do," Harry said quickly. "Look, Artemis, I know it's killing you not knowing, but this is stuff you shouldn't be involved with. You'll either get me killed or get yourself killed, or both."

Artemis's demeanor shifted, and suddenly he was an annoying brother who wanted to cling to someone again. "Oh, come on, Orion – I'll never tell anyone, I promise. I have promised. I don't need an in-depth explanation or anything, I just-"

"Just what?" snapped Harry.

That keen look returned to Artemis's eyes. "Orion, you teleported and erased Father and the Major's memories. I haven't seen anyone else do that."

Harry sighed, the thought of just Obliviating Artemis becoming alluring all over again. He buried the urge, though. "Tell you what, Arty," started Harry, "if you can keep it a secret, and keep out of my way, I'll tell you the moment I can be sure no one is going to die for it. I'm not being sneaky because I think it's a blast, you know."

Artemis didn't even pretend to think about it. "I know you can tell me something, Orion. It's related to those... those _things_ from today, isn't it?"

"Death Eaters," seethed Harry before he could stop himself.

Even in the darkness, even from across the room, and even while distracted by cussing himself out, Harry could see his brother's eyes flash. There was no way he was dropping it without more. Harry sighed.

"They're wizards and witches, evil ones," Harry said, the words coming slowly as he considered each one. "They hate people without magic."

"How do you know about this?" asked Artemis.

"I didn't spend all that time in the library playing dress-up," lied Harry. "Is that enough for now? Can I leave without you blubbering to Butler about how mean I am for not taking you with me?"

Artemis opened his mouth to reply, but Harry wasn't hearing it. "I'm only going to be gone for a couple of hours. If I'm not here by morning, can you do me a favor and make something up for Butler? Any old excuse will do. I'm sure you can think of something," Harry said.

"Orio-"

Artemis was cut off by a loud _crack,_ and was suddenly alone in the dark.

-O-

Harry walked around Shell Cottage twice before he was finally satisfied that no one else was in or around it. Inside, the place was a mess – broken glass, toppled furniture, and things hastily cast aside littered the tiny haven. Bill and Fleur had left in a hurry.

Harry laid the cloak and boots out on a daybed (he couldn't reach the tabletop) and went back outside. He wasn't the best at making wards. Certainly he'd had practice while on the horcrux hunt, but that felt like ages ago, and Hermione always said a right-handed monkey could make better wards with its left hand than Harry could on the best of days.

But Harry had gotten pretty good at a curious version of magic over the last few months. If all he had to do to make a decent ward was to know what to ask for, than maybe Hermione could eat her foot. Harry found a hefty rock a few meters from Shell Cottage, too big for him to move as a toddler. Harry placed his hands on it, chewing his lip.

 _Hide this place from those who would do harm to innocents._

Harry felt a tingle emanate down his arms, into the stone. The rock vibrated gently for a moment, then fell still. Harry couldn't be sure if his enchantment had stuck, but he decided to trust it. He left to find another stone or landmark to enchant, not stopping until he had made a rough circle around the general area of Shell Cottage.

Satisfied, Harry went back into the cottage and dressed himself in the robes and boots. He found a mirror in what had been Bill and Fleur's bedroom, and inspected himself closely.

He certainly wasn't going to pass for a genuine pureblood golden boy, that was for sure. The robes looked far more utilitarian than anything the likes of Draco Malfoy would be caught in, and the boots had a more "marsh stomping" than "Diagon shopping trip and mimosas" feel to them. Trying to appear as a muggleborn was suicide as far as Harry was concerned, and even trying to come of as a halfblood would be tricky. Unless...

Harry smoothed his hair back, trying on a sneer he'd seen on almost every Slytherin he'd ever known. It wasn't a perfect look – there was something wrong with the way he was standing – but with time, he could perhaps pass himself off as some nameless pureblood's bastard. Maybe a Black or something. The big thing was finding some scapegoat pseudo-parent in case anyone ever asked questions about where Harry got his wizard blood.

Harry sighed. He itched to confront Voldemort and kill him that very night, but there seemed like so much to do in preparation. He needed a wand. To get a wand, he needed money, and to get money, he had to get into the wizarding world, and to get into the wizarding world, he had to pass himself off as someone worth not immediately killing – which he would probably also need money for. Getting in contact with Ron and Hermione, or anyone else he trusted from the Order, would give him the resources to do what he needed to do, but he had no clue how to find them.

So Harry focused on making Shell Cottage livable again, starting with the little sitting room with the daybed in it. All the while, he pondered his plans, and concocted lies and tricks he could use to get out of this situation with his head on his shoulders.

It wasn't until the sun began peeking through the cracked windowpane that Harry finally decided to get back to Fowl Manor.

-O-

If Artemis Sr.'s stump wasn't unnerving enough, than his new demeanor certainly was.

Coming out of the hospital with one limb less than he'd gone in with had soured the man's disposition. If Harry gazed at his stump, his rolled-up pant leg, or even in the man's general direction for too long, he'd get pulled aside and have his ear talked off about respect or whatever. Making Artemis Sr. testier still was Angeline's constant surveillance – if he wasn't actively on the toilet, his wife was hovering nearby, asking sharp questions about where he was going, what he was muttering about, and what he needed so desperately from his office. He was only allowed to make calls and check emails with Angeline sitting right beside, him watching him like a hawk.

Harry had hoped the Fowls going legitimate would have lessened to tension around the manor. It was a foolish hope.

If nothing else, Angeline had put a swift end to whatever lessons Harry and Artemis would have endured with Artemis Sr. All that was left was to study typical muggle subjects with their private tutors.

The boys' science tutor was an old man named Professor Marvin Charles, a nervous wreck with frizzy white hair who kept his anxieties in check by cracking his knuckles, which made it easy for Harry to know just how infuriated he was making the old man. Their sessions usually sounded like an erratic game of exploding snap, but not this one – Harry had been quiet so far, and Charles was content to let him catch up on his sleep while devoting all of his energy towards Artemis, the resident prodigy.

Harry was lulled out of his nap when Artemis interrupted Charles's lecture on atomic bonds. "Sir, if you don't consider it inappropriate, what do you think of the recent tragedy in London?" asked Artemis.

Harry's eyes snapped open. What was he trying to do?

Charles, too, was thrown off. "What do _I_ think, young Artemis? I think it was a terrible shame. Why do you ask?" said the old man, his knuckles cracking wildly all of the sudden.

Artemis frowned. "Well, sir, I wondered what you thought of the scientific implications. Are there no theories as to how mere humans managed to fly about London and explode buildings as if by-"

"As if by magic?" scoffed Professor Charles. "Young Artemis, I understand that you and your brother were in the midst of the action when it happened, but whatever memories you have of men flying through the air are entirely of your own creation. A coping mechanism in response to the senseless loss of life that day."

Artemis glanced over to Harry, who shrugged openly. Had the Ministry or some other entity wiped the muggles brains of the true culprits? Or was this something the muggles had made up for themselves, their own coping mechanism, as it were? In any case, Artemis had gotten Charles started.

"What happened that day was a strategic attack by suicide bombers, courtesy of some newfangled death cult. I did some research – the media is trying to say this is their first major attack, but they've actually been quite a problem in South America. There's been attacks all over Brazil these last few months." All the while, his knuckles cracked, and popped, and snapped.

Suddenly, Harry stood up. _All over South America?_ "Artemis, can I talk to you real quick?"

Artemis looked up, unable to hold in his look of surprise. "Of course."

"Great, come on," Harry said. He left the drawing room with Artemis trailing after, leaving Professor Marvin Charles to gape silently at the boys' utter dismissal of his authority. Harry made sure to slam the french doors behind him, leaving a quick command on them to not let Charles eavesdrop.

Harry turned to Artemis. "I need to go take care of something. I've put it off for long enough," Harry said with finality.

Artemis frowned. "And I suppose you aren't going to tell me what it is," said Artemis.

"I'm going to Dublin and I'm going to try to get into wizard society," Harry stated, deadpan.

Artemis's eyebrows fluttered up to his hairline. "What – really? For what?" He was unable to keep the amazement out of his voice (an entire society of wizards? In Dublin?), looking and sounding very much like a child.

Harry nodded. "If I can, I'll get you a souvenir, but I'm not going for fun. I need you to come up with a cover-up story for me, just for a few hours. Say I have diarrhea or something," Harry said, not wasting a moment.

"I used that one last time you went away," Artemis said.

"Then say something else, for crying out loud. You aren't stupid," Harry snapped. He checked his temper – sometimes he forgot that Artemis was, at the end of the day, just a kid. "I'm sure you'll think of something, I mean."

Artemis set his jaw and nodded, the gears already turning behind his eyes as a lie formed. Harry was slightly unnerved by how quickly the boy had taken to pulling off deceptions. He hoped he wasn't responsible for that, at least not wholly.

Harry disappirated to Shell Cottage.

-O-

Harry had dressed himself in the robe and boots – refined to look a little less mundane than they had been – and was at the corner by the sweet shop in minutes. He looked around only enough to be sure no one had noticed his arrival, and started towards the pub. It was a Thursday, in the middle of the morning, and Harry wanted to be hidden behind wards before being spied by any muggles who might try to "help" him.

Harry took a deep breath as he neared the Black Hat Inn and Pub, but he didn't dare hesitate before swinging the door open. He had to look as much like he belonged there as possible.

The Black Hat was quiet, which Harry thought odd for an Irish pub, of all places. What few patrons there were were hunched over, a mere one or two to a table, speaking in hushed voices if they spoke at all. Tinny music played from a radio somewhere within the Black Hat, loud enough to notice but not loud enough to enjoy.

Harry ignored it and strode towards the bar with purpose.

The busty witch at the bar ignored him, fully engrossed in an issue of the _Daily Prophet._

Harry cleared his throat. The witch didn't respond.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Harry said, slapping his palm against the side of the bar.

The witch leaned over, looking equal parts perplexed and annoyed. "S'not a safe place fer mudbloods 'ere, child. Best be on yer way," she said.

"Don't patronize me," snapped Harry, partly to keep his character convincing, and partly because he was genuinely sick of being treated like a child. "I need to get to the magic world. Would I be correct to assume this pub has access to a gateway? Or does this establishment not even offer that much?"

The witch recoiled a bit, chin whiskers twitching. But Harry certainly had her attention. "Aye, we's got us a back door to Sloping Lane. Plus the Floo's back up, if yeh'd rather use that," said the witch. Her eyes narrowed as he inspected Harry's attire. "Wha's yer name, lad? Where are yer parents?"

"I'd advise you to mind your own business, madam," Harry said with his best "testy" voice. "Where is the fireplace? I would greatly appreciate use of your Floo, if basic innkeeping is not too much of a challenge for you."

The witch seemed about to object, or kick Harry out, but with one last twitch of her bristles, she directed Harry to the fireplace. "Use the one on the left. It's for the outgoin' traffic – an' speak clearly, would ya. These aren't the best times to be poppin' up where ye don't belong, now," she said.

"Yes, yes, thank you..."

"Mildred. Yer welcome," grunted the witch.

Harry nodded and walked over to the fireplace. He grabbed a handful of the Floo powder and settled into the left fireplace. In as clear a voice as he could manage, he said, "Gringotts Bank!"

Green fire engulfed him, and Harry was gone.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

Harry's eyes adjusted and his heart leapt in his chest as he took in the familiar sight of Gringotts's marble floor and sturdy pillars. Even in the midst of Voldemort's reign, the goblins still rushed to and fro, as busy as they'd ever been – always more concerned with gold that where it came from. There was something comforting about always being able to rely on the greed of goblins.

Harry started towards the counter, ignoring the stares of immaculately-dressed wizards and goblins alike. He came to the counter and cleared his throat.

More cooperative than the barkeep had been, the goblin at the counter leaned over immediately. "Can I help you, young man?" sneered the goblin.

Harry had to admit – he had sorely missed the unique way in which magic folk sneered. From Snape to any goblin under the sun, they had a way of making anyone instantaneously aware of just how detestable they found them. Harry struggled to keep his expression cold despite the warm, fuzzy feeling blossoming in his chest. "I would like to know the required materials for opening an account at your bank," Harry stated, straight to the point.

The goblin adjusted its spectacles. "First and foremost, you will need a parent or legal guardian to hold the account partly. As well as the opening deposit, proof of your identity, blood status, and forms 16-E and 17-A and B," said the goblin. "Does that answer your question?"

"Yes. Follow up question: what constitutes proof of blood status?" asked Harry.

The goblin raised his eyebrows as if the answer to that question were the most obvious thing in the world. "Why, a family tree, of course. Please keep in mind that your blood status is only considered sufficient if you've more than two magical grandparents," he said.

Harry nodded. "Naturally. May I have copies of the necessary paperwork?" he said.

The goblin rustled some things around his desk, and handed Harry a folder full of forms and other documents. "Thank you," Harry said, silently asking the folder and its contents to shrink down to fit in his pockets.

If the goblin had any real misgivings about whether or not Harry should be in the magical world, they evaporated upon seeing his little magic trick. Children usually had a greater aptitude for wandless and wordless magic, but not deliberate magic, like Harry had performed. Someone as young as Harry would have needed private, specific, and expensive tutoring to have such skills – which anyone but pureblood families struggled to afford.

"A pleasure doing business with you, sir," said the goblin.

"Yes, yes, thank you," Harry said busily. He made his way out of Gringotts like he had somewhere to be – which he did, but if he got anything done was anyone's guess.

Diagon Alley was far quieter than Harry had ever seen it before. That may have been due to it being during the school year, or it may have been Voldemort trimming the acceptable magical population down to almost nothing. More likely the latter – between the need for Harry to prove his blood status and the number of previously-thriving shops that now had windows boarded up and signs taken down, there was no denying it.

Harry pretended to be unfazed, but that fuzzy feeling was fading fast.

He picked over the remaining shops – Flourish and Blotts and Eeylop's Owl Emporium still looked to be in business, along with a few others that Harry recognized. The one that caught his eye was what used to be Ollivander's – which had been rebranded as Diagon Wand Shoppe. Harry's stomach twisted into a knot at the sight of it. Ollivander had been in hot water with the Dark Lord the last time Harry had seen him – of course there was no way Voldemort would have let the man keep his shop, but looking at it with his own eyes... It just seemed wrong and unnecessary.

Harry steeled his nerves and entered the store, irritated by the inappropriately-cheery bell that announced his entrance.

A gray-haired witch was sorting through shelves of wands when Harry entered. She craned her neck. "Hello! Here for a wand? Or does it need cleaned, or..." She trailed off when she saw how young Harry was. "My bad, darling. Are you lost?"

"No, ma'am, I was actually hoping to price your wands," Harry said, deciding to look irritated by his treatment.

"Oh, they go for anywhere between twenty-five to sixty these days," the witch said, coming closer to the counter.

Harry couldn't suppress his recoil. "What, _galleons?"_ he said before he could stop himself.

Instead of looking annoyed, the witch suddenly looked somber. "I'm afraid so, darling. Wandmakers are in short supply these days. Gregorovitch has been dead for years now, and with Mr. Ollivander being in Azkaban and all..." She shook her head. "Wandmaking is a strange art. You can't take a class on it or pick it up over the summer. It's old magic. Magic of the Earth, and all that."

In a much cheerier voice, she went on, "The Ministry has appointed me to oversee the dealings of the remaining stock. We've got all the leftover stock from our great wandmakers - Ollivander's and Gregorovitch's alike. They're the last of their kind, these wands. Folks have been petitioning those Native American wandmakers to set up shops in the UK, but for the time being, this is what you've got to choose from."

Harry took a moment to process all of this. "Twenty-five to sixty galleons per wand, then?" hummed Harry.

The witch nodded.

"Thank you for your time, ma'am. I might be back in here soon," Harry said.

"Anytime, darling," smiled the witch, getting back to her sorting while Harry exited the stores.

Other businesses, while being a bit more pricey due to the sudden lack of competition, weren't too far off from what Harry recalled. He wouldn't be getting anything he needed without money, of course, but the wand was by far the biggest concern he had as far as supplies went.

Harry stopped at last at the Leaky Cauldron, knowing he had no money to buy anything, but wanting to see if Tom was still alive.

He was. He greeted Harry kindly, if a bit more somber than he remembered, and of course asked where his parents were.

"Gringotts, juggling papers," Harry said, feigning exasperation. "Say, are you still reading that newspaper?"

Tom laughed. "What's a boy your age concerned with current affairs for?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "I like to read, and who knows how long _they'll_ be busy," he said.

Tom conceded and handed Harry the copy of the _Daily Prophet -_ and a mug of cocoa to go with it, free of charge. Harry settled in to a squishy red armchair by the fire, feeling giddy with nostalgia despite himself. All he needed now was Crookshanks clawing at his shin and the comforting lull of Ron and Hermione's bickering in the background.

Harry pushed these thoughts out of his mind, lest Tom find him blubbering in the corner, and focused on the newspaper. The front page loudly sang the praises of the Ministry, which had apparently pulled off their greatest cover-up operation since the age of Grindelwald. The muggles were entirely convinced it was an attack by suicide bombers.

The news didn't get any more cheerful. Everything from stories about Ministry officials being busted as blood traitors, to the ever-increasing count of muggleborns killed since Voldemort's return, made Harry's cocoa taste less and less sweet. The only silver lining was a small section that mentioned a member of a "rebel group" being apprehended by authorities – which meant the Order was still alive somewhere.

Harry just didn't know how to find them.

"Thank you for the cocoa, sir," Harry said, coming up to the counter. "Do you mind if I take this photo out of the newspaper?" It was a photo of Rita Skeeter, beaming at the camera with her eyes glinting. It had been posted beside an article she'd written on halfblood etiquette in the new wizarding world. It didn't move much, with only her teeth flashing between her lips and one hand playing with a tress of hair.

"Go ahead, lad. I'll have a new one by tomorrow," said Tom.

Harry thanked him again and made up something about getting back to his parents before they worried about him.

He'd been gone for about three hours, and had, as far as he was concerned, accomplished nothing.

-O-

Draco followed his father up the narrow, sloping stone steps towards Azkaban. Howling wind and raindrops like pellets beat up against the two wizards, making their cloaks flap wildly and loudly. Only charms in the fabric for warmth, and charms in their boots for weight, kept them from being pitched off the jagged rocky plateau and into the freezing depths of the sea.

It was the first time Draco had been to Azkaban. He'd always known it was a terrible place, but words couldn't accurately portray just what kind of place it was. Lucius, who had been stationed at Azkaban for several months now, had tried to describe it many times – always failing.

Azkaban was a hole in the side of the Earth, sucking joy and sanity and safety into its depths to be frozen to death and forgotten about.

Voldemort had sent Draco to investigate a disconcerting report from his father.

At the base of the stone tower, Lucius fumbled with a ring of keys, finally finding a black skeleton key and opening the heavy door.

Inside, it wasn't much warmer or much quieter than outside. Wind gushed in through cracks in the stone, making hissing and howling sounds, from the shrillest shrieks to most somber of notes.

How many of those howls were from the wind, and how many from the prisoners, Draco had no way to tell – and if he did, he wasn't sure if knowing would have comforted him.

"Well?" Draco prompted. "Where is he?"

"Third floor," grunted Lucius, keys jangling in his hands. "This way – and don't look at the dementors for too long."

As they climbed the steps, Draco couldn't help but envy the Order. At Draco's first Order meeting, where he'd relayed the Dark Lord's plan about the muggleborns and the London raid, an ethereal jack russell terrier had bounced in through the fireplace to confirm Draco's loyalty with Ron Weasley's voice. It was a magic Draco had known existed, but had never seen with his own eyes before – mostly because no Death Eater could manage a patronus.

The silence soon ended when they reached the third floor, and Lucius lead Draco to the end of a hall. "It's there," said Lucius, teeth chattering. It was piercingly cold on the third floor, regardless of however many charms were on their cloaks.

Lucius unlocked the door, and Draco pushed it open. He peered into the stone cell, squinting through the darkness to make out the shape on the other end of the room.

He got his wand out. " _Lumos,"_ Draco said, and the cell was bathed in cold, blue light.

Slumped over on a cot, hair still clinging to the skull, was the skeletal form of Ollivander. Draco felt his brow furrow, and he entered the cell to get a closer look. "You said he died three days ago," Draco said as he inspected the skeleton.

"He was flesh when I found him," Lucius said, his hands jammed in his armpits in a futile attempt to keep them warm. "By the second day, his gut had burst, and now..."

Draco grabbed the skull with both hands and yanked it firmly off the spine. The motion jostled the rest of the bones, and the precarious pile of ribs and joints clattered against the stone. Lucius gasped audibly behind him, but Draco was concerned with the skull.

"Interesting,," he hummed, turning it around in his hand, running his thumb along the groove around the eye socket. "Did you have time to determine a cause of death?"

"Well, I... You know I'm no medic, boy," Lucius said. "I did look over the body, but it seemed as though the man just... died."

"A heart attack?" Draco turned to face his father.

Lucius shrugged. "Most likely. The wind is so loud, that even positioned right outside the cell, I heard nothing the night he passed away," said Lucius. "But the man was old – he was old when I got my first wand, and my father bought his first wand from him as well. Perhaps it was the cold, or the stress, or just his age."

"Even so," said Draco, turning back to the pile of bones, "that doesn't explain such rapid decomposition, especially in these conditions. Does Azkaban have a rat problem?"

"No, the dementors certainly scare away any rodents that even make it here," Lucius replied.

"Bugs?"

"Not many – some spiders and centipedes, but enough to eat a man in two days?"

Draco sighed, holding Ollivander's skull to his chest as he thought. This wasn't like anything he'd ever read about before, unless... "Perhaps his death and decomposition were more magical in nature," Draco suggested. "Perhaps he didn't see fit to continue living in these conditions and he..."

"What, killed himself? How?" asked Lucius. "He didn't have a wand."

"Not all magic requires such a thing. Our late friend was quite adept at wandless magic, if you'll recall," mused Draco. He had numerous childhood memories of evenings spent in the parlor with Snape and his mother, the man trying to show him all sorts of tricks that could be done without words or a wand. Making flowers bloom, or making them glow, or hum. Draco hadn't been very good at it, but Snape made it look as natural as sneezing, if far more deliberate.

Between that, and the number of spells and potions of his own invention, Snape had truly been a mind of a kind. Not that it mattered now that he was dead.

Draco put his feelings in a pile and shoved them in a corner to be dealt with later. There were more pressing issues at the moment.

"I shall report to the Dark Lord that it appears Ollivander took his own life through magical means," said Draco, "but it is best to open a more thorough investigation into his manner of death. Determining precisely whether or not magic was used is key. If so, that will be the end of that. But if not..."

Lucius nodded, looking green. They both knew what would happen if the Dark Lord found out that one of his most valuable prisoners had escaped, particularly to the guard who let it happen.

Draco wanted to tell his father not to worry – even if it did turn out that Ollivander had escaped, the Order wouldn't let anything happen to them. But saying so would mean exposing his own treachery, and even stuck inside the veritable black hole that was Azkaban, Draco didn't trust secrets to remain so.

The bones were gathered up and Draco left for Riddle Manor, choosing wisely the words he would use to report this to the Dark Lord – and to the Order.


	11. Chapter Ten

**AN:** Thank you to every one who's read/reviewed this since the last update! It's been a while, I know, but I ran into a BAD spot of writers block and couldn't continue this particular story for a while. Hopefully I can get over this hump and continue on with my plans for this fic. In summary: not abandoned, and thank you all so much!

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

Neither Artemis nor Artemis Sr. were at breakfast, which of course Angeline noticed immediately.

"Butler, where are they?" she asked sharply.

Butler paused pouring Harry his orange juice. Any lesser man would have cringed at Angeline's tone, but Butler was made of tougher stuff – he only had a split second of panic.

"In the Master's study, my Lady," said Butler. "Artemis asked to take breakfast with his father, in private. I believe they're discussing how best to further the family business now that questionable ventures are off of the table."

Angeline hummed, her manicured nails tapping against her water glass loudly. She had a look in her eye that Harry couldn't place – something between suspicion and frustration, but certainly more potent than both. She stood abruptly, the whole table shaking at her force. "I think I'll go check on them, just to be sure," she said, beckoning no argument.

The heels of her morning slippers clicked intently across the hardwood, and the dining room doors slammed shut not a moment later.

Butler sighed, going back to Harry's orange juice.

"She's probably right to be suspicious," said Harry mildly, grabbing a knife from across the table and digging into his pancakes. "I don't know if he'll ever let go of his little tradition – Arty's not, anyway. He's such a pain in the-"

Butler snatched the knife out of his hand. "You're too young to use that," said Butler. "And don't talk about your family that way."

 _They're not really my family, though,_ Harry thought. He started using the side of his fork to cut into his food.

"Stop, stop – just let me do it. You eat like an wild animal," said Butler, distraught. "You act like you've been starved, I swear..."

Butler was halfway through trying to cut Harry's mangled breakfast tidily when Angeline came back in with Artemis. "Butler, would you get Arty a plate of food? I need to have a word with his father," she said, grinning too wide.

Butler opened his mouth to reply, but Angeline was gone again before the manservant could get a "yes ma'am" in. Artemis took his seat across from Harry, and Butler left to get his food.

A beat passed before Artemis invariably started to pry.

"So. What's on your mind? Bad batch of potions? Lost your flying umbrella?" asked Artemis. "Unusual amount of magic terrorism?"

"Shut up, not so loud," Harry seethed. He shoveled four bites of pancake into his mouth furiously. Giving the photo of Rita Skeeter to Artemis was supposed to tide him over for a while, get him off of Harry's back so he could think for once, but all it had done was crank his interest up to eleven. In the three days since Harry's trip to Diagon, Artemis had pestered him about magic dozens of times.

"Be rational, Orion," said Artemis. "You can't give someone a glimpse into an exciting secret world with _magic_ in it, and then not give them anything."

"Your _glimpse_ into the magical world was a building falling over and your dad nearly dying," Harry said around a mouthful of pancake. He gulped it down. "How much more do you want to see?"

Artemis scowled. " _Our_ dad. Even if you don't like him, he's still your father," he said.

 _Oh, I beg to differ._

"Besides, that's not really the point," Artemis went on, in a much more amicable manner. "The point is that you've been distracted for days. You aren't sleeping, you aren't sassing any of our tutors... I'm concerned."

Harry leaned back in his chair a bit, unsure of whether Artemis was being genuine or not. Then again, did it matter? At the end of the day, Artemis was just a toddler – but specifically, he was an intelligent toddler. It was entirely possible that Artemis might start him down a path that might lead, eventually, to a solution.

Heaving a sigh, Harry prepared himself to put up with endless badgering for the next six weeks because of whatever bits and pieces of information he might let slip. "As a matter of fact, I do have money issues..."

-O-

"How do you know about this?" asked Harry, keeping his voice down even though he'd asked the walls to keep their coming and going a secret.

Artemis smirked, his little teeth gleaming in the low light. "You learn all sorts of things when you pay attention," he said.

"That sentence was completely meaningless," Harry said, deadpan.

Artemis rolled his eyes. "Father showed me the other day. No matter what Mother does, he's not letting go of our legacy, and he wanted to know he and I were on the same page. So he took me around the manor and showed me a bit of the family history... You know, just passing it along," Artemis explained.

Harry didn't know why, but he felt a sharp pang in his chest. _This isn't your family and this isn't your history,_ he told himself firmly. But even though he knew Artemis Sr. wasn't his father, Artemis Sr. didn't know he wasn't his son. Why had he made sure to include one son in his life and work, and not the other? Harry did as he had done so many times in the past few months, and buried his feelings deep inside to be left alone and die. There were more pressing matters at hand.

Artemis lead Harry to the Hall of Memories. Harry regarded it skeptically. He hadn't been since Angeline's fervent home tour so long ago, but he couldn't recall anything in there that could help him with his predicament. Most things that goblins would find of value were too big to move without being caught, and besides – as far as he knew, everything was stolen anyway. Harry had no desire to profit off of stolen goods.

"Make the doors be quiet," ordered Artemis.

"Don't tell me what to do," Harry said, but he put his hands on the hinges and asked them to keep it down all the same.

With Artemis's help, they pushed the door open enough to slip through into the hall.

"It's at the end," said Artemis, in a voice almost reverent.

Harry tried to remember what was in each room as the crept down the hall. Dresses, doodads, paintings, suits of armor, large chests of who-knew-what and who-cares. Artemis didn't give any of the rooms so much as a glance, he just kept up his pace until he had taken Harry to the very end of the hall.

Where Lord Hugo Fowl lay.

"What is this?" Harry asked, unable to keep the irritable note out of his voice.

"This?" Artemis said, relishing that he knew something Harry didn't. "Oh, this is nothing. Open it up."

Harry choked on his own spit. "It's a _casket –_ coffin, tomb, whatever. I'm not doing that," he said.

Artemis leered at him. "What? Are you frightened, Orion? Afraid you might get corpse goo on you? Too delicate and innocent to look at a dead body?" He was grinning as much like a madman as a two-year-old could. "Well, fine then. I guess your money troubles are never going to go away. Might as well put on your pauper's clothes and head out to live on the docks for the rest of your life while you're at it. Beg passersby for gruel, and all that poor orphan stuff."

Harry bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself from cussing Artemis out.

"Fine," Harry said through gritted teeth. "But if that thing isn't loaded to the brim with gold ingots, I'm going to turn you into a rabbit and cook you for supper, you get it?"

Artemis just smirked at him. "There's an alarm, so be careful," was all he said.

Harry put his hands on the tomb and squeezed his eyes shut. _Alarm, don't go off, please,_ he tried. Trusting that the alarm was as quiet as it was going to get, he focused on the lid. _Open._ It eased open, accompanied by the sound of stone against stone. He exhaled as it was set silently on the floor.

"Alright," Harry said, wanting to punch Artemis in his stupid, grinning face. "Let's see this old skeleton and-"

The words died in Harry's throat as he peered over the edge of the tomb at what lay within. Artemis squealed and clapped, doubtlessly elated by the look on Harry's face.

If there was a body in the tomb, Harry couldn't see it, because the whole thing was absolutely brimming with gold ingots.

"I told you," said Artemis. "I told you, I told you, I told you. You should trust me more often. I'm very helpful."

Harry was at a loss for words.

-O-

Harry didn't have any fond memories of Knockturn Alley, but he wasn't sure where else he could go to take care of what needed taking care of. Gringotts wouldn't exchange his ingots for galleons without an account, and even though he had gold, he didn't have parents. He still needed an owl, and a wand, and countless other things. He needed connections.

A toddler alone in Knockturn Alley was an odd sight, but most wrote him off as having fairy blood or something of the sort. After all, one look at his face was all you needed to know he wasn't your run-of-the-mill toddler. Harry drew his cloak close around him, ducking into Borgin and Burkes.

Borgin was messing with a display of skeletal hands when Harry entered.

"Good afternoon, how can I – oh," said Borgin, turning around and seeing Harry. His face soured. "This is no place for children. Where are your parents?"

Harry didn't say anything. He locked eyes with Borgin, reached into his cloak, and pulled a gold ingot out of his shrinking pocket. He lofted it in one hand as best he could – it was incredibly heavy – before stretching to slam it down on the counter. "I would like its weight in galleons," he said, staring Borgin dead in the face.

Borgin's gaze switched between the angry-looking child and the bar of gold on his counter.

"Fair enough," he said. Borgin had infinite uses for gold besides galleons – if he ever needed to trade with a fairy or muggles, it helped to have something of value besides wizard currency on hand.

Borgin took a cut of gold for his trouble converting it, but it was still a considerable sum in Harry's pocket.

"Pleasure doing business with you..." Borgin trailed off.

"Orion," Harry supplied. The Fowls had given him a suitably pureblood wizard-esque name, if nothing else.

Borgin was satisfied and bid him farewell, and Harry was off to spend every knut of what he'd just made. Owl. Wand. Supplies. Harry ran down his mental list, his heart beating in his ears as he realized he was finally making progress. He thought of writing a letter to Ron and Hermione, wherever they were – telling him that he survived, after a fashion, and that he's back to help fight Voldemort, and he misses them, and -

Harry walked right into someone's ass.

"Watch it," Harry snapped before he could stop himself. The impact knocked him off his feet and had him sprawling on the cobbled street. He looked up at the owner of the butt he'd walked into, and found himself making direct eye-contact with Draco Malfoy.

"What-? Where are your parents?" demanded Draco.

Harry moved his mouth a bit, trying to come up with a retort, but none came. Draco rolled his eyes, and stooped to help Harry up. "Knockturn Alley is no place for a kid," Draco said in a low voice.

Harry shrugged him off, smoothing his robes and hoping Draco didn't notice the telltale marks of transfigured garments. "Don't patronize me," Harry said. "I'm perfectly capable to taking care of myself, thank you."

"Apparently not, you ran right into me," said Draco with a frown. "You didn't say where-"

"You were in the way," Harry cut him off.

"Excuse me?"

Both Harry and Draco jumped. An elderly witch peered at them from under the rim of her hat, frowning. "Is your son giving you trouble?" she asked.

Draco's face turned bright pink. "What? No, he's-"

The witch wasn't having it. She scoffed. "You know, back in my day, children weren't nearly such a problem," she said. "If my boy gave me hell right in the middle of the street, I'd put him over my knee and tan his hide in front of God and everybody. Everyone is so concerned with the feelings of children, they just let them do whatever they want. It's absolute madness. Word of advice for you, young man-"

"I'm no one's-"

"- if this boy ever gives you trouble, a kitchen spoon is all you need. Three or four good whacks to his backside, and he'll be an absolute angel. Pass it on," finished the witch. A few other elderly witches and wizards had overheard the discussion, and grunted their approval before going on about their day.

"He isn't even my kid!" shouted Draco as the witch flounced away to bestow unsolicited wisdom on others. "What is wrong with people..."

"Yeah, people are wild," Harry said, somewhat dazed. "Excuse me."

Harry ducked around a corner, eyes never leaving Draco for more than a second. He watched his old rival scratch his chin, himself at a loss for words, before entering an apothecary across from Borgin and Burkes.

Part of Harry screamed that it was ridiculous – absolute madness – that he even considered it a possibility. But another, much small, and much more emotional part of him reminded him of his sixth year – from catching Draco sobbing in the bathroom, only able to confide in Moaning Myrtle, to that night in the tower, with his wand trained on Dumbledore, and his inability to do what Voldemort demanded of him.

It was crazy – stupid, even – but as far as Harry could tell, it was his best shot.

Harry started up the gently sloping road towards Diagon Alley. He needed an owl.

-O-

Harry's lip curled as he tried – once more – to force his ridiculous toddler-limbs to write with a quill. He'd at first been ecstatic to have ink and parchment again, but the quill was a problem. He'd already made a splotchy, scratchy mess of two drafts, and could scarcely write his name without mucking it up somehow. He was almost ready to apparate back to Fowl Manor just for a pen when he finally started to get the hang of it.

 _Draco,_

 _For all intents and purposes, I'm a stranger – but I know enough about you to consider trusting you. For now._

 _We need to speak in private._

 _Black Hat Inn/Pub. Friday night. Come alone._

 _\- O.F._

Harry read and reread the note twice, deciding it was suitably cryptic. He wafted it in one hand, waiting for the ink to dry, before rolling it up and tying it to his new owl – a tawny thing he'd taken to calling Earwig.

"Take it to Malfoy Manor – roundabout-like. I don't need people tracing you back here," Harry muttered. Earwig pecked at the top of his head, and Harry scratched her under her beak before sending her off.

He watched her go, daring to hope, if even a little bit.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**A/N: :))))**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

Countless quiet conversations compounded into a steady rumble of noise, made louder by how tightly packed the meeting room was. The last time Draco had met with the Order, the room had been sparse – Hermione Granger, Cho Chang, and a few of the Weasleys' cousins on the Prewitt side that Draco recognized from Hogwarts, but had never realized were related. No more than seven.

Now, bodies were crammed in the room like sardines. Most were the muggleborns saved during Voldemort's little "test," now fully healed and eager to spill Death Eater blood. Others were half-bloods and blood traitors with too little faith in the Order before a few carefully-worded rumors reached their ears. In any case, Draco was squashed between two people he barely recognized but who Ron had sworn would lay down their life for him if it came to that.

The noise finally died down when Hermione stood up, immediately commanding the attention of the entire room. With no Dumbledore, no Potter, and most of the senior Order members six feet under, Hermione had wound up settling into the role of leader. It suited her, though Draco never would have admitted it just a few years earlier.

"Alright, first thing's first," started Hermione, not loudly but still with enough authority that no one dared interrupt, "are the reports – Hammond, you first with the public."

Charlie Hammond, a reedy young wizard and former-Hufflepuff who'd graduated the year before Voldemort's return at the Tri-Wizard Tournament, stood to his full height and cleared his throat. "Half-blood and muggleborn families are leaving Britain in droves, most half-bloods are being pulled out of Hogwarts even without any strikes on their name – which is for the best, I assume. Old Voldy won't tolerate their presence for long, anyway. We're already hearing rumors of wizards and witches filing strikes on their neighbors and family members to stay in his good graces," he said.

Hermione nodded, brow low as she mulled this over. "Public opinion on Death Eaters buzzing around London and attacking muggles?" she asked. "And specifically, on how they were apparently thwarted by our forces?"

"It's difficult to say," admitted Hammond. "The press has been fairly quiet about the story for the most part. Of course the Ministry is patting itself on the back over the cover-up, but the Order's presence in the story is minimized. From what I can tell, most people are barely aware the Order still exists – let alone that it had any impact over the incident. Most assume the Death Eaters walked away from it unscathed."

"Thank you, Hammond," Hermione said, and Hammond gave a curt nod before sitting back down. "Now then, if Malfoy would give us the private report?"

Draco could feel the room's eyes on him as he rose. He should have expected it – after all, he did spend most of his school years taunting and harassing many of the people in the room – but was he not instrumental in their rescue? Didn't he run to and fro seeing to their wounds just days ago? Perhaps he was simply imagining things. No matter.

He cleared his throat and began his report. "Plans for raids and such have grown more sparse in light of recent events. From what I understand, the Dark Lord-" He couldn't bring himself to use the moniker 'Old Voldy' like the rest of the Order, "- wants to make effective use of my presence here, and as such has ordered Mulciber to be more economic in planning attacks and searches. The only upcoming raid I've gathered information on is in this coming February, and is designed to _discourage_ half-blood families from remaining in Knotting Hallow. Even certain pure-blood households will be at risk."

"Anything else, Malfoy?" asked Hermione.

"Yes, but..." The letter stored under Draco's robe suddenly felt incredibly heavy. "But I think it best it is discussed in private."

A few of the muggleborns leered at Draco from the corner of their eyes, but Hermione was satisfied. "Thank you, Malfoy. Now then, we're going to be going over your assignments for this next period – Malfoy and Hammond, keep your eyes and ears open as always, and report immediately if anything of note comes up. Fletcher, Donovan, you're going to see to it that the Shelleys make it out of Britain safely – they're leaving for America Thursday night at eight PM sharp..."

The rest of the meeting dragged on, each moment making the letter weigh more and more. It was difficult not to fidget as Hermione steadily intoned assignment after assignment. But eventually, the meeting room had cleared out, and Draco could finally discuss what had been weighing on his mind.

"I fear my cover might not be as convincing as I'd thought," he said, not waiting for Hermione to beckon him to speak.

She quirked an eyebrow at him, then it turned to a glare. She didn't move from her seat at the end of the table. "Explain."

Draco fished the letter out of the robes and set it on the table, sliding it over so that Hermione could see it. "I received this last night, from an owl I don't recognize," Draco said.

Hermione squinted at the letter, picking it up and reading over it carefully. "O.F.? Who's O.F.?" she asked. "You don't know anyone, anything – a place, an organization, anything at all – with those initials?"

Draco shook his head. "Not at all. I was hoping you would know of it, that it was one of the Order's. Maybe someone who left after Dumbledore passed and only recently thought of returning."

Hermione wafted the letter in the air as she thought about it. "It's best not to keep this from Old Voldy," she said at length. "I'll cross-reference with older Order members in the meantime, but I think this is an outside force. You – you are _sure_ that Old Voldy didn't discover your true loyalties when he scoured your mind?"

He'd considered the letter being a test from Voldemort's end. "I'm as sure as I can be," he said. Draco had a very organized mind – memories clearly labeled and packaged and organized by date and content on shelves, and all of his secrets kept in a leather healer's bag in the corner. All of his secrets except his true ones – the ones that could get him killed. Those he wrote down on parchment, and used as tissue paper to wrap up all of his lesser, more tolerable secrets. When Voldemort had explored his mind for disloyalty, he'd ripped right through Draco's allegiance to the Order and cast it aside to find the memory of that one time Draco had accidentally freed his mother's favorite elf by playing dress-up as a child.

A little trick Snape had taught him posthumously, as Draco flicked through old journals and trashed textbooks salvaged from the man's home.

"You can't keep this from him," Hermione said, handing the letter back. "Go on and tip him off. Reaffirm your loyalty. I'll sleuth around for O.F. in the meantime."

Draco nodded, already organizing his memories and secrets so that it would seem to Voldemort that he had come to him with the letter as soon as he'd received it.

It was incredibly clever of Snape, to have found a way to have a mind so organized that Occlumency was only barely necessary at all. Draco did have to admire the man for his dedication, for his abilities – to seemingly welcome the Dark Lord into his mind, while simultaneously stashing secrets left and right without Voldemort even noticing...

He had to wonder what inspired Snape to develop such skills in the first place.

-O-

Harry dropped a few sickles on the table, and they were quickly replaced with hot cocoa by Mildred. "Thank you, dear," hummed Harry, pretending to be engrossed in his copy of the _Daily Prophet._ There wasn't any news about the Order or a resistance of any sort, just tale after tale of new horrible things Voldemort was responsible for every day. Really, Harry was keeping an eye out for Draco. He had no clue if he would show up or not, or if he would trust Harry even if he did.

But Harry had to risk it. He had to get a foothold in the magical world if he was ever going to find Ron and Hermione or – most importantly – get to Voldemort.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Harry spied a familiar blond head of hair. Draco had arrived, looking rather anxious, and flagged Mildred down (Harry supposed to ask her if she'd seen any suspicious individuals). He tried to look inconspicuous, sipping his cocoa until he saw Draco sit down from the corner of his eye. It was easy to stay out of sight – the Black Hat was dead all of the time, just from tolerable patrons being cut down to only pure-bloods, but it was still a Friday night, and more lively than Harry had seen it before.

Harry steeled his nerves and flagged Mildred down himself.

"What is it, boy?" asked the barkeep gruffly.

"I would like to buy a mug of cocoa for that blond man who just came in – the one in the corner?" Harry said. He handed the coins over to Mildred. "Feel free to tell him who sent it his way. Give him a _lot_ of marshmallows."

Mildred frowned. "How many is a lot?"

Harry thought about it. "When you get to the point where you think, _good god, how could anyone drink this?_ Double that. That's a lot," he said.

Mildred nodded and took his money, and Harry settled deeper into the armchair to wait.

Soon, he was joined by the fire by a rather perplexed Draco. "Um, excuse me, did you...?" he trailed off when he saw who was sitting behind the _Daily Prophet._

 _Here we go,_ thought Harry, and he fixed Draco with a look that said "you didn't expect this, did you, you dunderhead?"

"Evening, Malfoy," Harry said evenly. He gestured to the armchair to the left of his, which he'd slipped Mildred a galleon to keep vacant for him. "Glad you could make it. Please – have a seat."

Slowly, uncertainly, Draco lowered himself into the chair – still clutching his mug of cocoa with an absurd amount of marshmallows. An awkward moment, filled only with tinny music and numerous conversations neither were a part of, passed, and Harry broke the silence. "I'm pleased you showed up," he said.

Draco regarded him suspiciously. "You... you're O.F.?" he asked.

"Orion Fowl," Harry supplied. He'd given the name before, but it still felt wrong to say it aloud. But he needed a name, and he supposed it was as good as any.

"You're like two," Draco said, deadpan.

"And you're a prick, but you don't see me pointing it out when no one asked," Harry snapped, losing the snooty pureblood persona for just a moment. He quickly reclaimed his composure, and added in a more level tone, "One and a half, as a matter of fact. Two in September. But I didn't ask to see you to discuss birthdays and technical things like how old I am. No, we're here to talk about you."

Draco recoiled a bit. "Me?"

Harry took a long sip of his cocoa. "Yes," he said at length, "you. More specifically, how you can be useful to me."

"First thing's first, Fowl," said Draco abruptly. "Who the hell are you? _What_ are you? Vampire? Fairy? Something I haven't even heard of before? I don't know of any two-year-olds who walk around Knockturn Alley unattended and talk like... Well, like you. What is it, then?"

"I'm just an old soul, I suppose," Harry said offhandedly. "Drink your cocoa, I had Mildred make it with extra marshmallows because I knew it would make you look ridiculous holding it."

Suddenly, Draco became very self-conscious of his mug overflowing with fluffy white marshmallows in the midst of an Irish pub full of wizards who made their livings harvesting dragon scales and wrestling hippogriffs. "Quit dodging the question," Draco said. "You called me here. You wanted to meet. I had hoped it was something more pressing than cocoa, or that I had been summoned by someone more important – or at least older – than you. So spit it out before I get sick of this and just leave: what do you want with me?"

Harry heaved a sigh, setting his cocoa down on the side table, and folding up the _Daily Prophet._

"To be perfectly frank, Malfoy – I need a dad," he said.

A beat passed.

"You what?"

Harry leaned in his chair to face Draco better. "I have plans and things I need to take care of, and frankly I can't do that if I don't have a foothold in the magical world," Harry started. "Oh, I can push money around Knockturn Alley all day long, and I probably won't get hexed, but that's not good enough. I need a background. I need parents, and parents of a status that won't see me immediately cast out of this world or flat-out killed." In a lower voice, he finished, "It's a dangerous time to be a muggleborn, I'll say that."

Draco blinked, looking even more confused than before. "Wait, so are you -? No, how could you be, unless..." His eyebrows raised, then narrowed. "Are you using polyjuice? Who are you? What – what _plans-"_

 _You're losing him,_ Harry thought with a dawning sense of panic. _Of course I am – Merlin, why didn't I think this through? He has no reason to trust me, he has no idea who I am or what I want or any of that._

So be it – Harry would just have to figure out how to convince Draco a little less gracefully.

Harry steeled his nerves and his mind and prepared to poke around Draco's consciousness. Halfway through one of Draco's questions, Harry locked eyes, and thought with complete conviction, _let me see what's going on in there!_

And he was immediately met with a brick wall, which he mentally face-planted into with a skull-splitting headache to accompany him in his failure.

Draco was suddenly on his feet. "What were you trying to do?" he asked. "You're an – how could you be a Legilimens?"

"I'm full of surprises," muttered Harry, rubbing his eyes and his temples. Okay, so Draco was something of an Occlumens – fine, cool, Harry supposed it didn't matter when or how, just that he had exposed himself as willing to peruse others' minds to get what he wants, and maybe that made him difficult to trust-

A wordless hex hit Harry in the stomach and suddenly he was doubled over and gagging.

"Oh dear, what a mess," Draco crooned, quickly followed by Harry vomiting all over the carpet before the fireplace. "How nasty – nothing a good cleaning charm can't fix, anyway. I ought to get this little one back to his parents, excuse me. _Thank you_ for the cocoa, Ms. Mildred – I really liked the little cauldron-shaped marshmallows. How quaint. _Anyway-"_

Harry, still sick and with his head pounding, was further disoriented as he was scooped up by Draco and jostled around before side-along apparating to, well, somewhere else.

Where, he hadn't a clue, because he was suddenly and totally unconscious.

-O-

"Orion?" Artemis called, as loud as he could without fretting about Butler overhearing and coming to his aid. "You in here?"

The library, however, was utterly silent in response. Artemis frowned, hands on his hips. Orion had left in a rush the previous evening, promising Artemis a pen that could write on its own if he kept his mouth shut and covered for him if he wasn't back by morning. Well, it was morning now, and Orion certainly hadn't returned, but Artemis couldn't cover for him forever.

He came down the stairs, wondering if perhaps his brother had already come home and had stopped by the kitchen to get breakfast early from Penelope. Butler caught him by the bottom of the stairs.

"Is Orion-?" started Butler, but Artemis cut him off.

"Trapped in the bathroom, last I saw of him," Artemis said with a sigh. "His poor bowels. Perhaps he should see a pediatrician about his digestive system. Unless you've seen him around?" He didn't have to fake the hopeful note in his voice.

Butler shook his head. "Run along and get some food," he said. "I'll go check for on Orion..."

Butler started up the stairs without another word. Artemis watched him go, his stomach turning just a bit. He drew the pocket watch he'd swiped from his father's study out of his pocket, checking the time again before continuing towards the kitchen.

Orion was usually back by this time.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Chapter Twelve**

* * *

"Enter," beckoned Voldemort when the knock sounded.

He was faced away from the door, eyes fixed on the embers softly glowing the fireplace, as he rolled the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak between his thumb and index finger. Another trophy claimed from the boy's corpse. Or a stolen possession, soon to be reclaimed by his deathless enemy?

Voldemort had banished the thought in time for Draco the stumble into the office and fall into a bow. "My Lord," said Draco, "thank you for seeing me on such short notice..."

"Your meeting, was it anything to do with the Order of the Phoenix?" asked Voldemort.

"Er, no, my Lord – at least I don't think so. What I mean to say is -"

"Face me," Voldemort ordered. He was growing weary of Draco's blathering. Honestly, sometimes it was too easy to tell that he and Lucius were related.

Slowly but dutifully, Draco made his way around the office so that he faced the Dark Lord. He fell once more into a kneel, respectfully averting his eyes – or fearfully. Voldemort intended to find out which it was. "Look at me."

Draco did, and the next moment, Voldemort was in his head.

Organized as ever, Draco had left memories of the night in question laid out for Voldemort, unwrapped and labeled, accompanied by notes of his own interpretation of events. Voldemort inspected these closely: arriving at the Black Hat, the cocoa with (Voldemort thought to himself) _far_ too many marshmallows, and the one who had summoned Draco in the first place...

A child?

A toddler, barely over a year old, speaking fluently and – this delighted Voldemort – practicing legilimency.

Voldemort retreated out of Draco's mind, leaving the young man to kneel and sweat on the office floor, exhausted from the excursion.

"Most interesting," hummed Voldemort, still thumbing the Invisibility Cloak. "And you brought the child to me, for me to do with as I see fit?"

"I would have brought him to the Ministry to be dealt with along with the other mudbloods," said Draco, "but I thought you might be particularly interested in him, my Lord."

"Excellent work, Draco," Voldemort said. "Take me to him. I'd like to figure out once and for all what _plans_ this strange child was so eager to include you in."

Draco nodded, a little green in the face, and said, "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort rose, and allowed Draco to lead him downstairs to the parlor – completely sealed with magic – where Orion Fowl lay unconscious. Draco drew his wand from his robes and murmured a few spells to unlock the room, and stood aside so that Voldemort could enter.

Sprawled on the daybed, slick with sweat and clad in poorly-transfigured robes that stank of bile, lay Orion Fowl. Voldemort took three sure-footed steps towards the child, studying his face. He certainly had the look of a pure-blooded child – pale, with clever features and dark hair. Maybe he was like Voldemort himself, who had magical roots but grew up believing he was a mudblood.

Not that it mattered. It was entirely likely that the boy would be dead within the hour, depending on who he really was and what plans he had.

Voldemort considered briefly how best to wake Orion up, and settled on good old-fashioned _Aguementi._

"Mother _fuck-"_ sputtered Orion as he was blasted in the face with water. He rolled off of the daybed, flailing and covering his face with his arms.

Voldemort lifted the spell, suppressing a grin, and placed his wand back his sleeve. "A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fowl," Voldemort started. "I hear you're quite the character."

-O-

Harry wasn't sure what was going on at first. One moment, he was throwing up on Draco's shoes in the Black Hat, the next he was being blasted in the face with water, and now an eerily familiar voice was going on about how strange and quirky a fellow he was...

Harry's brain finally caught up with his senses and his entire body went cold.

Voldemort.

He was sitting at the feet of Lord Voldemort, wandless and disoriented and completely unrecognizable.

"Fuck," Harry said, mostly to himself, but more importantly in the middle of Voldemort's sentence.

"-and so Draco came to me and – what was that?" Voldemort paused his monologue long enough to give Harry a curious, almost perplexed look.

Harry realized that he'd cut Voldemort off, and what he had cut him off to say. "Shit, I mean – nothing, please carry on," Harry stumbled. "Don't let me stop you, I haven't got anywhere to be."

 _How the hell am I supposed to kill him without a wand?_ Maybe he could ask Voldemort's skull to explode.

Before he could give that the old college try, Voldemort was leaning over him, one brow quirked as he studied him. The snakelike eyes startled Harry and froze him in place – a Pavlovian response if ever there was one. _If I only had a wand,_ Harry thought, _I could curse him right now and end all of it._

"Draco has memories of your skill with legilimency. Admittedly, you're technique could use some work," Voldemort said. His voice made Harry shudder – it was lower, more composed than Harry had heard it before, and it made his blood run cold. "Perhaps I could give you a demonstration? You seem eager to learn..."

The pain of Voldemort trying to force himself into Harry's mind wasn't as bad as the constant aching and searing of his scar, but it certainly came close. Harry only had a split-second to act, to calm his mind and set up a brick wall – or at least a barricade.

He set traps and barriers up between his innermost thoughts and the Dark Lord: a pitfall there, a false entrance here, a barbed wire fence between them. All in all, it was rudimentary, and needed finesse, but before long, Voldemort retreated.

Harry rolled over on the floor, his head pounding and his stomach rolling. The only sound was the hastened roll of blood pumping through his ears, and Voldemort's steady chuckle.

"Fascinating," Voldemort said at length. "Absolutely marvelous. Who are you, boy? You're certainly no ordinary child."

"Fuck off," Harry said through gritted teeth, still clutching his head in a futile attempt to nurse his worsening headache. _Kill him – kill him – Merlin, anyone, anything, just make him_ _ **dead.**_

Before Harry could muster the focus or the magic to make his request a reality, Voldemort crouched by him and took him roughly by the face. "Who is your family, Orion Fowl? You have a rather Avery look to you, though you might grow to look more of a Black. Please. I must know where you come from," said Voldemort.

"Nowhere – no magic," Harry managed. "Let _go-"_

Voldemort did, and Harry collapsed to the ground. "Draco," said the Dark Lord, and Draco bowed his way into the parlor, "feed the child and get him some fresh robes. And give him a room. See to it that he doesn't leave it, either."

"Yes, my Lord," Draco said, though Voldemort didn't stick around to hear it. He was already on his way out of the room, robes billowing.

-O-

 _No magic._

It was ridiculous to think that a mere child capable of legilimency and occlumency both would come from a family of muggles – and to be so articulate (and so foul-mouthed to boot) was inconceivable.

No, Orion Fowl was something special. Something new. Something dangerous.

Voldemort grinned openly. Danger was something he was well-acquainted with, and had infinite uses for if carefully cultivated. And children were ripe for cultivation.

But was it worth it? Would the boy even cooperate? Being able to resist Voldemort's attempts to traverse his mind implied he could fend off the Imperius as well.

 _All the more reason to keep him! Such power cannot be allowed to wander off and turn against me,_ thought Voldemort. He swung the library doors open with a flourish, and snapped his fingers to slam them behind him. When he'd appropriated Riddle Manor from his father so many years ago, the library had been filled – obviously – with books of the muggle variety. Scientific journals, classic stories, myths, dictionaries, all leather-bound and first-edition and all of that riffraff. Voldemort had little use for them, and saw to it that most were destroyed with the rest of Tom Riddle Sr.'s possessions. Now, the library was packed with Voldemort's own collection. Bound in skin and stitched with hair, the darkest arts recorded in blood within tomes as old as sin. Potions and poisons, curses, hexes, and spells all too terrible for most to even conceive of were recorded within – from frantic scrawling in the margins of less offensive texts, to terrors dutifully and scientifically recorded for the purpose of being recreated by future generations.

Voldemort had the most complete library of long-dead, forbidden magic in the world.

And yet, he rarely spent time perusing the shelves anymore. Perhaps because he'd been unwilling to come to terms with the death of his horcruxes, Voldemort had not contemplated the deeper and more dastardly complexities of magic in a while.

But now, with Orion Fowl in his clutches...

Voldemort found the book he was looking for quickly, as it was one kept on the shelf by his desk, where he kept all of his most frequent and favorite reference. It was the same book he'd first read about horcruxes in, and it mentioned other forms of immortality as well.

Voldemort paged through it, eyes rapidly scanning the pages for the section he was interested in. He found it and cackled aloud.

It was a throwaway line, really. He doubted the author actually intended for it to be understood as a way to prolong life, but it was a rather poignant message nonetheless.

 _Use of such magic isn't advised,_ it read, _as there is very little reason not to keep one's soul intact._

Voldemort couldn't agree with the book more. There was no reason to continue splitting his soul into sickly, delicate fragments – not when the whole of it could be moved instead.

-O-

Draco had put more wards and enchantments on the room than Harry had ever even thought possible. Apparition wards, locking and anti-breaking charms, he'd even scribbled runes around the perimeter of the room to disallow the use of magic – and that was barely scratching the surface. Harry was effectively reduced to an incredibly furious toddler while locked in his lavishly-furnished prison.

He glared out the window at the sunrise, trying to stay angry so that he didn't panic. He should have known better than to trust Draco. Leave it to the snake to throw him under the bus the minute things got even a little sticky.

The door handle jostled and Harry leaped out of his skin, reaching for the wand he didn't have.

Harry's moment of surprise turned to hate when Draco entered the room. "Sleep well?" he asked, dry as a desert.

"I don't sleep," Harry insisted. It was a lie, actually. After staying up well passed midnight out of spite, his toddler physiology caught up to him and he fell into a deep, restful sleep. Even his headache had gone away in the night, though he was sure it would be back the minute anyone tried to pry into his mind. As such, he'd spent every waking moment fortifying his brain. He couldn't let Voldemort discover his true identity.

Instead of contesting Harry's claim, Draco tossed a set of robes onto the bed. "He wants to see you," Draco said. "I'd suggest you put those on – you look ridiculous in those _things,_ not to mention you puked all over them."

Harry was offended on behalf of his transfigured robes. Even though he'd have liked to toss insults back and forth with Draco, Harry knew he couldn't possibly hope to keep Voldemort waiting. "Well?" snapped Harry.

Draco cocked an eyebrow.

"A little privacy, please? Creep," Harry said with a sneer.

Draco rolled his eyes. "There's a washroom through that door. Don't keep _him_ waiting, though," was all Draco said. He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Harry grimaced as locks clunked into place and spells whizzed into effect. Still trapped – though hopefully not for long. Harry set to tidying himself up, washing his face and brushing the taste of bile out of his mouth before saying farewell to his transfigured robes, and putting on the new ones. At first, he'd thought they were too big, but – and Harry was somewhat embarrassed to have forgotten this – magic was a thing. They expanded and warped around his body to fit him perfectly.

Harry would have been amazed, but he had a feeling it was just a few quick charms – a cheap way to avoid having to buy tailored robes, the wizard equivalent of "made in China."

Nonetheless, he'd spent enough time on his appearance. It was time to see what on earth Voldemort planned to do with him.

Draco let him out of the room, and began guiding him through the halls to Voldemort.

They passed through the main hall and into another, smaller wing of the house, then through a set of french doors the lead to a large, closed patio.

Harry would have liked to take a moment and admire the scenery: the intricate tiling, the tall glass panes and stained accents, not to mention the excess of plant life and greenery. The patio overlooked what could only be Voldemort's own potion garden, which didn't even include all of the flora and fauna potted within the glass.

However, at the center of it all, standing out like a severed leg in a candy shop, was a small wrought-iron tea table at which the Dark Lord himself was seated.

 _He really does wear black all the time, doesn't he?_ Harry thought. Indeed, in the midst of the colorful flora and the pink cast of the early morning sun, Voldemort still wore his typical silky, pitch-black robes. It would have been funny, if Harry hadn't wanted him dead so badly.

"My Lord," Draco said with a bow.

"Rise and leave us, Draco. Orion and I have important matters to discuss," Voldemort said with finality.

Draco backed out of the room, still bowing just a bit, but threw Harry a dirty – almost curious – look on his way out the door.

The french doors closed behind him, and suddenly Harry was acutely aware that he was locked in a room – alone – with the most evil man he'd ever had the displeasure of dealing with. And with no way to kill him, either.

"Orion, please – have a seat," Voldemort said, all too pleasantly.

Harry hesitated just a moment too long, and the Dark Lord's eyes flashed. With barely a flick of his wand, Harry's body was sent barreling through the air towards the tea table. He landed on his rump a pace or two from the chair across from Voldemort. Seething, Harry picked himself up off the tile floor and hoisted his body into the seat.

"I'm so pleased you could join me this morning," began Voldemort, his chalky fingers drumming against each other. "Won't you have something to eat? A child needs to eat, after all." He gestured at the plate of scones on the table, encouraging Harry to indulge.

Harry grimaced openly. "What is this?" he asked.

Voldemort smiled widely – a sight that made Harry's stomach turn – and something vaguely resembling a chuckle escaped him. "This? This is what civilized people call breakfast, child. What, does your muggle family not feed you?"

Harry tried to move as far away from Voldemort as he could without actually leaving his seat. "I know what breakfast is, I mean – why aren't you killing me?" Harry asked plainly.

It didn't make sense, really. Voldemort was a killer. Harry had no idea what Voldemort thought Harry's plan was, but certainly he'd be able to figure out that they weren't on the same side. Didn't that mean that Voldemort should be trying to kill him? Why was no killing happening? Killing always happened.

"What, and so eager to die at such a young age?" Voldemort tutted disapprovingly. "I may just have to pay a visit to that muggle family of yours and teach them a thing or two..."

Harry's heart jumped in his chest, but he swallowed his panic just in time.

"Won't be necessary. I just want a straight answer – why am I still alive, and why are you trying to feed me? It's weird. Surely you can see how I would find this weird?" Harry said instead.

Voldemort smirked, and busied himself pouring two cups of tea from an obnoxiously yellow pot.

"Is that what you want, is it? A simple answer to a simple question?" Voldemort said. He pushed one cup of tea across the wrought-iron table, towards Harry. "How about this, then: you answer one of my questions, and I'll answer one of yours."

Harry glanced between the tea and Voldemort, suspicious. Poison? Truth serum? Cat piss?

 _Fuck it, if I die, I die._ Harry lifted to cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. "Seems fair," he muttered under his breath.

Satisfied, Voldemort leaned back in his chair with his own – terribly poppy-colored – cup of tea. "I figured you'd come around. Now then, I'll start: are you truly from a muggle family? I find it hard to believe a child of your talents would come from a world without magic."

Steeling his nerves, and his mind, Harry answered, "Yes, I'm from a muggle family."

A moment passed where Harry didn't elaborate, and Voldemort's expression darkened a bit.

"Hey, simple question – simple answer," Harry snapped. "My turn: got any sugar? This has got to be the most bitter cup of tea I've ever had."

One of Voldemort's brows went up, but a bowl of sugar cubes appeared on the table and Harry wasted no time spooning several into his cup. He managed to get fifteen in his glass before Voldemort finally pushed the bowl out of his reach.

"How did you learn to practice complicated magic like legilimency, and of the magical world in general?" Voldemort asked.

"It started as dumb luck and just kind of escalated from there. Not surprising I learned quick – I'm a genius by muggle standards too, make no mistake. It isn't impossible. My brother's like this too, though not a wizard," Harry said. He immediately cursed himself – why did he have to mention Artemis? He'd thought it would dissipate Voldemort's suspicions about his own intelligence, but what if all he did was put the poor kid in danger?

Harry cleared his throat and gulped his tea, even though it was still too hot to taste. "Anyway, here's a question I have for you: what do you plan to do with me? Hopefully not play tea-party for the rest of forever. This is actually really uncomfortable."

Voldemort laughed, spooning a conservative amount of sugar into his tea and taking his time stirring it in. "What do I plan to do with you, Orion? Simple – I plan to keep you."

Harry's blood ran cold. "Keep me?" he parroted.

"Yes, child. Though I may be persuaded to change that plan, depending on your answer to my next question," Voldemort said, "which is of course: what in Merlin's name did you plan on doing with Draco Malfoy's allegiance, but not my own?"

A chill overtook the room, and Harry had to try hard to suppress a shudder. He had to think fast – what could he say that would convince Voldemort not to kill him?

"What, didn't you read his mind?" Harry asked a bit more forcefully than he'd meant. He forced out a bark of laughter that he could only hope sounded natural. "I already said what I wanted with Draco Malfoy. I'm a filthy muggleborn, remember? I needed a fake family in order to become a part of magical society. Now I can't say I'm intimately familiar with the ins and outs of your regime, but it doesn't exactly seem to me that someone like myself would ever be going to Hogwarts or – and this is a big one – _being allowed to exist_ while a fella like you is in charge."

Voldemort was leaning forward just a bit, and Harry had no idea if he even realized he was. Perhaps he was just glad Harry was finally providing him with a thorough answer.

"The idea was that I would become a part of this society, and eventually convert the masses to a less radical ideology so that other muggleborns could learn and practice magic safely," Harry finished. It wasn't even really a lie – Harry did want muggleborns to be safe. He just really intended to do that by killing Voldemort, instead of by any subtle means.

Nonetheless, the answer satisfied the Dark Lord. He finished his tea and set his gaudy cup back on the table, considering Harry.

"That is ambitious for a child. You are actually a child, aren't you? Your apparent youth isn't some trick of glamour or unfortunate, permanent condition, is it?" Voldemort wondered.

Harry bristled. "Hey, one question at a time – it's my turn now," Harry insisted. Before Voldemort got a chance to reprimand Harry for dodging the question, Harry barreled forward, "You know what I wanted with Draco Malfoy – spineless snitch – and I guess you can extrapolate how I feel about you and your ideology. Now I wanna know how that information effects your plan – are you gonna keep me? Or kill me?"

It seemed Voldemort was amused. "You don't beat around the bush, do you, Orion?"

"Firstly, that was literally the point of our little agreement, and secondly, my life is kind of at stake here, so excuse me."

"Very well," said Voldemort. "To answer your question, I think I'll be keeping you."

"You son of a – wait, what?" Harry said. "Keep me? Still? Why?"

Voldemort wiggled a finger at him. "Ah, ah, ah, Orion. One question at a time, remember?" Voldemort said smugly. "First, you answer mine. You are truly a normal boy, aren't you? You age the same as everyone else, and there is no curse or condition to prevent you from maturing?"

Harry bristled. "No, I'm totally normal, just smarter than everyone. Jeez. Alright, now tell me – _why aren't you going to kill me?"_

"Simple: because you're a child," Voldemort said plainly.

"Never stopped you before, has it?" Harry snapped.

This earned him a chilling laugh from Voldemort. "You aren't wrong. But allow me to elaborate: you may be repulsed by myself and my vision for the magical world now, but you are – how old again? A year?"

"A year and a half."

"You're a year old. Practically a baby. But so skilled already in magical arts... Frankly, I believe I can use you." Voldemort leaned forward in his chair, seemingly radiating cold. "I think I can change your mind, Orion. Most children your age don't even have the capacity for belief; I'm sure you will see all that I have to offer as you mature. And when you do, you will be an invaluable asset. As feared among wizards and witches as I, and perhaps even as powerful."

Voldemort stood as Harry sat frozen in his seat.

"The most skilled and respected wizards and witches in the world are among my Death Eaters – but none are worthy. In truth, they're all mediocre. As strong as they are, they lack true ambition," said Voldemort, almost as though to himself. "Yet despite your heritage – perhaps even because of it – I see that you seek to be something greater. The rest are pawns, but you... I can make use of you."

A chill ran up and down Harry's spine.

"Enjoy the rest of your breakfast, Orion. You will need your energy for the rest of the day," Voldemort said. "We have much to do."

-O-

Draco listened at the french doors with mounting horror as he realized that he had delivered what could very well be the next Dark Lord right into Voldemort's hands – all but gift-wrapped.


End file.
